


The Color of Your Energy

by bexorz



Series: Hot Buns [1]
Category: Fantastic Four, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bakery and Coffee Shop, First Meetings, Identity Porn, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexorz/pseuds/bexorz
Summary: Johnny Storm is the Human Torch, but only the other members of the Fantastic Four know this. Why does he have a secret identity? To protect his bakery, of course. Wake and Bake is one of New York City's finest bakeries, and Betty Brant from the Daily Bugle is about to write a human interest story about it for the Food and Culture section. Who does she choose to bring with her as photographer? Peter Parker, obviously. Johnny is immediately intrigued.Peter is juggling a teaching career, freelance photography for the Bugle, and his superhero routine, with moderate success. He immediately falls in love with Johnny's pastries, and it doesn't hurt that Johnny keeps giving them to him for free.Meanwhile, Spider-Man and the Human Torch are trying to renew their friendship, having no idea they've just met face-to-face.





	1. Freebies

It was a day like most days in New York City. Tourists wandered the streets, alternating between staring up at the buildings and staring down at their phones, trying to navigate the unfamiliar streets with their GPS barely functioning due to the skyscrapers’ interference.

Inside the kitchen of the sensational bakery and deli called Wake and Bake, Johnny Storm—owner and head baker—was busy whipping together a batch of coffee cake batter. He hummed and danced along to the music rolling from the speaker in the corner as he measured ingredients, happy to be getting down into the nitty gritty instead of delegating it to one of his employees. Normally at that time of day he was taking a more managerial position, keeping folks on track, checking inventory, or going over the schedule for the next few days to see what was on order.

The reason that he was being so hands on that morning was because the Daily Bugle was doing a human interest story about his bakery. It was well loved by locals and tourists alike, with great reviews on every website it was listed on. Additionally, Johnny consistently won awards at baking conventions across the country. The newspaper was sending in a reporter to talk to him, as well as a photographer to take pictures for the article. He wanted to _look_ like he’d been baking. The best way to accomplish that was to actually bake something. To get the right amount of flour smeared on his arms and apron, and appear the right level of disheveled.

Johnny also wanted the bakery and the dining area to look gorgeous and worthy of a magazine for the Bugle piece. His employees had outdone themselves to accomplish this while still serving customers, and would be getting a surprise bonus for their efforts in their next paychecks.

Johnny was damn proud of his baking, and of the success of his bakery. Ever since he’d beeen young, he had always been interested in baking and food preparation. 

Even before he’d gone with his sister, Susan Storm, along with Reed Richards and Reed’s friend Ben Grimm, and they had all gained amazing powers in that cosmic storm, he had been an excellent baker. After the accident, his baking got even better. His control of fire and heat were incredibly helpful in the kitchen. He knew when something was ready, and he could add a little heat or take a little away if it was necessary. When he made steaks, they were never overdone. When he baked pies, the crusts were never burned, and the filling was never runny.

Johnny had been using his baking skills to fund more baking—and fund his mechanic hobby as well—since he was ten years old. It just made sense that when he was all grown up that he’d start it as a business.

What did that mean, once the four of them became the Fantastic Four?

Well, Johnny had a secret identity. On the team, he was known as The Human Torch, but he kept his head flamed on at all times, making him unrecognizable by both sight and voice. For those occasions when something went wrong and his flames went out, he also wore a mask. Most of the public thought that the mysterious Human Torch was someone who’d been a janitor at the Baxter Building or something similar. Rumors started on the internet by Reed, actually.

At first, it had been a matter of safety. Johnny had been fairly young when he’d gained his powers, and nobody wanted him to get hurt by some villain who would try to go after him at school. Sure, he could be pulled out and home schooled, but he had his friends, he had a life, and of course there were bake sales to protect.

As an adult well in control of his powers, and an experienced superhero, the safety issue was not as big a deal, but now he wanted to protect his business. He wanted the popularity of his bakery to be based on the food alone, and not because people were crazy about the Fantastic Four. If his superhero fame would have been responsible for the business doing well, then how could he truly gauge his skill?

It wasn’t cheating if he used his powers to enhance his baking, either. He’d been good before he’d become a living embodiment of flame. Besides, his food got rave reviews even when it was just his recipe being prepared by his employees without any interference from him at all. That was proof enough of his skill.

On the other hand, when it was for a contest, he prepared the food on his own. If other bakers could use fancy thermometers and ovens that had electric mechanisms for baking things perfectly, then he could use his cosmic abilities. It wasn’t as if special powers would have saved ten-year-old Johnny from the humiliation he’d suffered when he’d accidentally mixed up baking powder and corn starch when he’d made his first pie. Cooking something properly was not the same as having a good recipe.

When he had just finished crumbling the streusel over the top of the coffee cakes, one of the front cashiers, Kelly, came into the kitchen to tell him that the crew from the Bugle had arrived.

“Show them back!” Johnny said with a grin. The Daily Bugle was one of the few local publications that had never bothered to do a piece on his bakery before now, and he wanted to make the best impression that he could. Ben would probably laugh at him for intentionally smearing flour on his face to look more the part, but Johnny didn’t care.

When the pair from the Bugle came around the corner, he took note of the photographer before he noticed the reporter. The man looked to be in his mid twenties, about Johnny’s age. Decently attractive, with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, he was dangerously close to looking exactly like Johnny’s type. From the wide-eyed expression on his face as he looked around the kitchen, he’d never been in a professional food production facility before. Some of the equipment did look rather mysterious, if you weren’t already familiar with its function.

The reporter, Johnny knew, was Betty Brant, because he recognized her from photos in the newspaper, and he’d spoken to her on the phone already about doing the second half of their interview right at the bakery. Nobody had bothered to give him the photographer’s name, however. Johnny was going to have to correct that.

With a wide smile, he wiped his hands on his apron and approached them, holding out a hand to shake theirs each in turn. “Welcome! Good to see you again, Betty.” He turned to the photographer, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Who’s your photo guy today?”

“Storm,” Betty nodded, taking his hand quickly. She pointed her thumb at her companion. “This is Peter Parker.”

Peter Parker, Johnny thought. He somehow liked the sound of that, and thought it might be familiar. He offered his hand. “Peter, I’m Johnny, owner and head baker. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” Peter said, not taking Johnny’s powdered hand. “Erm, sorry. Camera, flour, bad mix..” He waved his fingers over the camera hung around his neck.

The crooked and apologetic smile that Peter shot him was stunning, taking away some of the sting of the rejection. Johnny felt his heart thump in his chest.

“Oh, well, that’s sensible,” Johnny said, smiling again to show that he wasn’t taking it personally. He wiped his hands on his apron again a little more vigorously.

“Betty,” Peter said, looking around. “Where do you want me to take pictures?”

“That depends.” Betty tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook. “Do you have an office where we could talk? It’s way too noisy in here. My recorder won’t pick you up very well.”

She was right about the noise. Between the machinery, the orders being shouted back across the counter, the hum of the coolers, and the oven fans, it was quite loud.

“I have an office downstairs,” Johnny said. “It’s not too much of a mess, we can talk in there no problem. Would you like some coffee also?”

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” Betty said.

Peter lifted a hand. “I’ll take some coffee.”

Johnny smiled. “Awesome. Cream and sugar?”

“No, black, thanks.”

Nodding, Johnny made his way across the kitchen to where they stored the coffee mugs. He had to dodge his assistants, but he was so used to it that he hardly noticed. After a quick hand wash in the nearby sink, he picked his favorite mug from the deli’s collection for the photographer. It was black and had flames on the bottom.

Yeah, so he was maybe a bit obvious. So what? Lots of people had a thing for flames.

From behind him, he heard Betty and Peter discussing where Peter should focus when he was taking photos. The questions that he asked her were very smart and informed, which told Johnny that he knew what he was doing. 

Attractive _and_ smart. That was a good combination. Even if he was only smart about photography. Johnny had a sudden thought about that, and smiled to himself as he filled the mug with coffee from the freshest pot.

“You know,” he said, handing the mug to Peter. “I think it’d be great to get some photos of my hard workers here. Can we get a team pic while you’re here?”

Betty raised an eyebrow in question at Peter, who shrugged. “Um, I don’t see why not,” he said. “I thought we were going to do one anyway.”

“Let’s get the interview underway before we get into that,” Betty said. “Peter, I just want you to get a broad range of shots. Whatever Jameson doesn’t like, we don’t have to use. It’s better to get more than we need.”

Peter twisted his lips and gave her a salute. “You got it, boss.”

Betty rolled her eyes and turned to Johnny to give him a professional smile. “Well, I think we should get to it. I know you’re busy, and I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“No problem at all! Those are the perks of being in charge. I can take off as much time as I want, whenever I want.” Johnny gave her a flirty wink, and threw Peter a conspiratorial grin for good measure.

The cashier Kelly snorted from the doorway when he said that, and rolled her eyes.

“Hey, when I start paying you for sass, you can give me sass!” Johnny called after her. Her reply was a sarcastic salute and a rude wave of her finger before she disappeared around the corner. Johnny laughed, scratching his cheek.

Betty lifted an eyebrow and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “I see you have a good casual working relationship with your employees.”

Shrugging, Johnny said, “When it’s crunch time I have to whip them into shape, so when we’re not crunching we try to have fun.”

“Ha!” another baker chimed in.

“Shut it, Javier!” Johnny waved her towards the stairs that led to the lower level of the bakery. “Let’s get to it. Your boss probably isn’t as forgiving as mine.”

“You don’t… have a boss…” Peter said. Johnny could see the gears turning behind the photographer’s pretty hazel eyes.

“Exactly.” Johnny gave Peter finger-guns before disappearing with Betty for that interview.

—————

Peter Parker was a good photographer. This had happened somewhat on accident over the years, simply by the enormous amount of practice he’d had at it. Once he’d decided to start selling secret selfies of himself as Spider-Man, he’d had to learn the craft quickly to keep the income going.

All right, dedicated practice and research weren’t exactly an “accident”, but he’d never set out to make photography a career. Yet here he was, taking photos of a bakery for an article in the culture section of the newspaper. It was a far cry from creatively setting up camera angles and auto shutters to take photos of himself in stretchy spandex fighting crime and villainy. It was, however, making use of skills that he had gained while learning about photography in general, to help him avoid Jameson’s screaming at him about blurry pictures and bad framing.

He was in the way, and he knew it. The bakers and cooks and the wait staff were all quite polite about their annoyance, but he could sense the annoyance just the same. It was in looks he got, muttered comments that they thought that he couldn’t hear, and sudden bursts of laughter in response to what were probably inside jokes.

It could have been worse. The first time Jameson had ordered him to do this sort of job, he hadn’t known what he was doing. The photos had all been unacceptable, and he’d had to go back and take all new ones on another day. Talk about people being annoyed at him for being in the way.

The biggest challenge at the bakery, he discovered, was resisting the urge to let his scientifically-inclined nature take over. He really wanted to get a look inside some of the machinery they were using. The dough roller in particular drew his attention, but when he asked someone who was using it how it worked, they just shrugged at him and said something along the lines of, “I don’t know, I just know how to clean it.”

Peter thought that that should mean that they’d at least have an idea of how it worked, but he also knew that other people were not as interested in that sort of detail as he was. That’s not what he was there for, anyway.

While he lined up shots of food and baked goods in various prep stages, and took photos of the cooks and bakers while they worked and occasionally laughed together, he thought about the owner. Johnny Storm was not the type of guy he pictured when he thought about a baker. Peter had pictured a much larger—and older—fellow with a red nose and a white chef’s hat perched on his head.

Instead, Johnny was slender and toned, and every inch the definition of conventionally attractive. Instead of one of those silly hats, he’d been wearing what Peter thought was a motorcycle skullcap, instead of a regular bandana. It had flames on it. Underneath that, Johnny had blonde hair.

If he crashed and burned in the bakery business, Peter figured Johnny could probably take up a career as a professional model. That was how atypical he was compared to the cliché. Then again, Peter had not met many bakers; what did he know? The guy was probably covering up an early bald spot with that skull cap, anyway.

Taking his camera up front, Peter looked for photo opportunities in the dining area. He added a few shots of people eating—handing them the appropriate legal waivers for permission to use their photos in the paper—a few artsy fartsy photos of salt and pepper shakers, as well as numerous photos of the display cases containing the pastries, cakes, and deli sandwiches that were available for purchase. There was tasteful art on the walls: nothing that was too distractingly thematic, social, or political in nature. From what he’d seen already of Johnny’s personality, that was something of a surprise. Peter would have expected black and white photos of cars and motorcycles.

Half an hour later, he had finished with all the photos he could possibly take, and made his way back to the front counter to wait for Betty to be done with the interview. While he was there, he eyed the pastry selection. The croissants, danishes, and the turnovers looked theoretically delicious, but most fancy pastries he’d tried had not tasted significantly better to him than the regular cheap old fruit pies you could buy at any quick stop in the city. The cost difference didn’t make it worth it to him, when those fruit pies were so good. These looked amazing, but they were expensive, and presentation wasn’t everything. Most likely they were not worth the higher price tag, even though this place generally got rave reviews.

Nobody had ever accused Peter Parker of having a discerning palate. His regular diet was mostly pizza and hot dogs.

Despite the cynicism of his thoughts, Peter’s attention was drawn to the raspberry cream cheese danishes. They looked delicious, even considering his usual reservations. They were flaky and drizzled with white icing: not so much that it looked like it would be nauseatingly sweet, but enough that the pastry wouldn’t be dry. The raspberry filling had an actual texture to it, indicating that it wasn’t just a bunch of flavored goo.

Peter’s powers of observation were impressive, but at times his tendency to become hyper-focused led him to miss other things. Such as the fact that Johnny Storm had been leaning against the other side of the counter, watching him with a smirk on his face, for at least a full minute before he cleared his throat.

“Ah-hem,” Johnny said. “Would you like one? On the house.”

Peter jumped, cursing his spider-sense for not warning him of non-threatening surprises. “On the house?” He looked into the case. Thirteen dollars for a danish was not something he’d ever willingly pay.

"Everyone is crazy about these," Johnny said, grinning.

Peter pursed his lips and looked into the display case again. “I’d love one.”

Johnny grinned wider. Peter thought that it was a nice expression, and Johnny used it to great effect. He suspected that the famous baker could probably charm the pants off anyone. Or at least the money out of their wallet.

An ironic thought, considering that the man was offering him expensive pastries for free, and Peter wasn't going to complain about that price tag.

Johnny grabbed a slip of wax paper, which crinkled as he reached in and took one of the danishes out of the case and handed it over to him. "Here you go. Enjoy."

Peter took the treat and licked his lips, debating whether he should eat it right then or not. Johnny hadn't given him a bag. He could ask for one, but he was really curious as to what a $13 pastry tasted like. Sure, he'd had expensive food like this when he'd been at events for the Bugle, or taking photos for them and sneaking one behind everyone's back, but he'd not bought one for himself. He could hardly afford a deep dish pizza most of the time.

The danish was phenomenal. Peter bit into it, and the pastry flaked off delightfully on his tongue. It almost melted in his mouth. Then the almond flavor of the icing hit him, and the blending of the raspberry and the cream cheese flavors followed that, and he found himself in pastry heaven. It was one of the most amazing things he had ever put into his mouth.

"Oh my god," he said, eyes widening to the size of saucers. He took another bite and barely chewed it enough to speak without spewing it all over. "That is the best danish I've ever had."

Johnny beamed at him, clearly feeling pride in his work. Peter thought that the guy would probably be used to that sort of praise, but somehow he still seemed pleased at Peter's reaction. Peter suspected that if he hadn't liked it, that Johnny would have made a sarcastic comment or something. Maybe not. But the man obviously loved his baked goods.

Then Johnny took another paper and reached in again. "Hey, you know, why don't you take another one for your girlfriend?"

Peter's brows drew together and he shook his head a bit. "Don't have one."

Johnny raised an eyebrow, hand pausing where it hovered over another danish. "Boyfriend, then?"

Peter blinked, and shook his head again. "Nope, single." He eyed the danish, unconsciously licking his lips again. He desperately wanted another one, but he wasn't going to outright ask for it. If it was supposed to be for him to take home to someone--

"Really? Huh." Johnny shrugged. "Well, take it for yourself, then. You look like you deserve an extra treat now and again." He grabbed danish #2 and slipped it into a bag, custom stamped with the bakery's logo, and handed it over the counter.

Swallowing his fourth bite, Peter reached out to snag the freebie. "Thanks," he said. He wiped crumbs and icing off the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to feel embarrassed by his greed. "Um, you got a napkin?"

These, too, were custom stamped. With how high brow the place was, Peter wasn't surprised.

The interview must have been over, if Johnny was over here talking to Peter. Betty emerged not long after Johnny said goodbye and thank you to Peter. The two of them left together, and Betty walked slightly behind Peter so that he could navigate traffic for her while she reviewed her recorded notes on her phone.

Feeling somewhat guilty at being given this prize, Peter offered the extra danish to her. "I really don't need it," he said, though it hurt to say it. Betty was nice to him, and had gotten him this job with the bakery photos because she knew he needed the extra cash, and she hadn't left with a free pastry. "Do you want this?"

Betty shrugged. "No, Peter, you can have it. I know you don't actually want to give it to me." She smiled softly and shoved the bag back towards him. "Keep it."

Since she was right, Peter wouldn't bother pretending to argue with her over it. He curled his fingers around the folded end of the bag as securely as he was holding his camera strap in the other hand.

—————

Through some metaphysical miracle, the danish in its little bag survived the dreaded Parker Luck. It made it through the rest of Peter's day at the Bugle, as well as the trip home afterwards. Still in one piece, Peter set it on a plate on his kitchen counter and looked down at it. The icing was a little squished, ok, that was fine, but it still looked mouthwateringly delicious. It was going to brighten up his morning immensely to have that to wake up to and eat with his daily coffee.

With a weary sigh, Peter flopped down on his couch and opened up his camera to scroll through the memory card. He would have to review the photos on his computer later, but for sure he'd be able to trim out the bad photos before he did that.

Honestly, macro shots of pastries was not something that he ever thought that he'd be taking, but now he had a ton of them. In addition, since he knew how good those pastries actually were, they actually looked tempting, whereas he'd never really given half a damn about bakery photos in magazines before.

It was painful to realize that he'd been converted so easily. Usually he was just fine eating Hostess cakes and fruit pies and ring dings--cheap stuff like that. Now he was going to be forever tormented by baked goods he could never ever afford on his own. Pining away for pastries. That was pretty pathetic.

While he was stripping out of his civvies to slip into costume for his nightly patrol, Peter found himself doing a mental catalogue of his income and his expendable budget so that he could figure out how often he could go back to Johnny's bakery to buy overpriced danishes. He'd have to try their croissants and crullers and their maple-frosted apple fritters at some point, too.

“Goddammit, now I'm hungry again,” he cursed to himself, slipping out his window to seek crime fighting adventures in the city.

It was two purse snatchers and half an hour later when Spider-Man happened across the Vulture up to his usual shenanigans downtown. The old geezer was flying away from a crime scene with arms full of who knows what, cackling at the ineffectual police force following after him down the avenue. Peter knew that once Vulture got bored of that, he'd take off higher into the sky and evade them completely. He could tell that police helicopters were still a few minutes off. That was plenty of time for the guy to escape.

"Hey, Buzzard!" Spider-Man cried out, swinging up towards him. "You got nothing better to do tonight? Did they cancel bingo at the old folks' home?"

"Spider-Man!" Vulture snarled. "You filthy pest! We're still in the air, this is my domain! You can't beat me!"

Well, it was difficult, and exhausting—and also more than a little bruising—but eventually Spider-Man did beat him. Wanting to get home quickly, he dumped an unconscious and heavily-webbed Vulture off at the nearest police station with his usual hand-written note.

Crawling back through his window back at his apartment, Peter peeled his sweaty mask off his face and dumped it on the floor next to his coffee table. He'd gotten buffeted and battered, and had even been knocked into an abysmally slimy dumpster at one point. There were bruises on his ribs that would make falling asleep difficult. It had been a rough night.

The rest of his suit ended up on the floor in the bathroom while he took a quick shower. The hot water would soothe the ache in his bones, and he desperately needed to scrub the filth off of himself. It wasn't going to solve the problem of the growling in his stomach, though. He was starving after all his exertions.

With his towel wrapped and knotted around his waist, Peter made his way into his kitchen with the plan to heat up a frozen burrito. He stopped in his tracks, however, when he caught sight of the danish sitting where he'd left it. It looked even more tempting than it had earlier. Yes, he was saving it for the morning, but...

What was it that Johnny had said? "You look like you deserve an extra treat now and then"? After the fight he’d just had, Peter sure felt like he deserved it.

Forgetting about his plans for breakfast, Peter went ahead and ate the danish. Despite how famished he was, he took his time with it, savoring every last crumb and smear of icing. Not even embarrassed to do it, he licked the plate clean afterwards. It was even tastier than the other one had been.

Logically, he knew that that was probably just because he'd been out fighting crime. Anything tasted better when you were hungry after fighting crime. That did not diminish how sweet and satisfying the danish was.

When he and Betty had left the Bugle that morning to go to the bakery for the interview, Peter had been pretty cynical about the entire affair. There were a lot of establishments in New York that were overhyped and overpriced. Your average citizen wasn't going to regularly go eat somewhere that charged Madison Avenue prices for food. They were going to head into Hell's Kitchen or Chinatown to eat. That's where real people ate.

In hindsight, Peter felt a little guilty about the disparaging commentary that had been running through his head and popping out his mouth. Betty had been tactful about it, but she'd sort of told him to shut up. Jameson wasn't paying _him_ to write the article, after all, and if he'd never eaten the food there, he had no way of having any sort of valid opinion about it.

Now that Peter'd had those danishes, and knew firsthand how actually amazing they were, he knew better. The hype was deserved in this case. Even though there was no way that Johnny would know about what he'd said—unless Betty told him, which was not likely—Peter still felt like he had wronged the guy. It was a completely irrational thought, but there it was. Peter was nothing if not prone to irrational thoughts and feeling guilty. It was probably his default condition.

Falling asleep with all his bruises was hell, but Peter was tired enough and worn out enough that he slept like a rock once he got around to it. In the morning he was stiff, but the majority of the bruises had healed overnight. Thankfully Vulture hadn't given him another dislocated shoulder like he had during their last fight, so it didn't hurt his arm any to reach over and slam the snooze button on his alarm half a dozen times before crawling out of bed.

While filling his coffee pot with water from the sink, Peter looked down and saw the plate he'd left the danish on sitting on top of the rest of the dirty dishes waiting for whenever he was going to get around to washing them. He didn't regret having eaten it already, necessarily. What he regretted was that he didn't have another one.

It had been so good. He felt pathetic and redundant for getting so fixated on a damn pastry, but he couldn't help himself. It wasn't often that he got to eat really nice food.

Peter dumped the water into the coffee maker, and sat down with a bowl to pour himself some cheap off-brand cereal, but then he stopped. Glancing between the box of cereal and the dirty plate, he decided that just this once he could afford to splurge and go back to Wake and Bake and buy another pastry. Since he'd already had twenty-six dollars plus tax worth of free food from there, he thought that maybe he should even it out a little bit so that the universe and his bad luck ddid not come down and smack him on the ass or something.

He promised himself it was going to be the only time that he did it, and he would just settle for his usual cardboard-and-sugar cereal or Pop Tarts or a fruit pie from a newspaper stand next time.

No one would ever be able to tell him that he couldn't have a fruit pie for breakfast. He was an adult, and he had spider powers; he could eat what he wanted.

The front door of Wake and Bake jingled as Peter pushed it open and stepped inside. The place wasn't packed, but it was busy enough. Businesspeople sat at tables by the big front windows on their laptops with their lattes, a family ate together at a booth, the adults telling their children to keep it down—thankfully—couples sat together, people waited for their takeout orders, and wait staff went back and forth between the dining area and the kitchen.

This time of morning, it was noisier than it had been when Peter had been there with Betty. He supposed that the time of the interview had been chosen specifically during slow hours to minimize interruption.

Peter didn't see the owner anywhere, but a young fellow approached him and asked him if he was dining in or taking out. Peter said he'd be dining in, and he'd sit at the counter. No need to take up table space when he was just going to be there long enough to suck down a coffee and have a few bites of danish.

Sliding onto the stool, Peter leaned against the counter and ran a hand back through his bangs. What on earth was he doing here, spending this much money on a glorified donut? This was ridiculously indulgent.

_You look like you deserve an extra treat now and again._

Peter smirked and shook his head. "Relax, Parker, one overpriced danish isn't going to bring the free world to ruin."

"Well that's for sure, or I'd be out of business soon enough," said a familiar voice.

Startled, Peter looked up to see the beaming face of one Johnny Storm in front of him. Johnny held a coffee pot in one hand and a clean mug in the other. Peter was startled by how put together the man looked; he didn't have a bandana on this morning, and his blond hair was well styled, bangs falling gently across his forehead. It didn't look like he'd been doing any of his own baking today. Johnny wasn't wearing an apron, but he was wearing an expensive soft blue polo shirt that looked great with his eyes.

Even as it hit him how attractive Johnny was, Peter thought about how much more approachable Johnny had seemed when he'd been slightly a mess. He was almost intimidating now, looking like he'd just popped out of a magazine.

Peter cleared his throat and scratched his cheek. An embarrassed grin twisted his mouth as he said, "How many do you think it'd take?"

"I think it would take at _least_ three.” Johnny smirked and lifted the pot. "Coffee?"

"Uh, yeah, please," Peter said, self-consciously adjusting his cheap button down shirt collar. There he was, set to splurge his money and suffer for it later, and this baker man was standing there looking like he had everything, and could get anything that he didn't already have that he wanted.

Johnny had an obnoxiously companionable grin on his face as he set the mug down in front of Peter and poured the coffee. "So, are you back for more treats, or did you need to take more photos?"

"No, we're good on photos," Peter said, reaching for the cup. Johnny offered him cream and sugar, but he declined. "Unless you'd really like me to take more just to satisfy your vanity.” 

Well that was some choice word vomit. Peter forcibly kept his body language casual as he lifted an eyebrow at Johnny and took a sip of the coffee.

Fortunately, Johnny laughed. Oh good, Peter thought. That kind of sense of humor.

"Well, I don't have to sell you this freshly baked blueberry scone, if all you have to offer me is insults." From behind the counter, Johnny pulled out a small plate with the aforementioned scone sitting on it all pretty-like.

Peter's eyes widened a fraction before he was able to school his expression better. “Wouldn’t have figured you’d throw away a sale over some good-natured ribbing.” He took another sip of his coffee, looking down into the dark liquid and swirling the cup gently. "Isn't the customer always right?"

"Oh, it's gonna be like that, is it?" Johnny let out a huff and shook his head. "I'll just have to eat this myself, then." He lifted the plate towards his face and opened his mouth wide.

"All right, all right!" Peter laughed and made a grabbing motion towards the scone. "It looks really good. I was going to get another danish, but I'll buy the scone."

Grabbing it off the plate before Johnny could take it back, Peter took a bite and chewed furiously. "You're the strangest small business owner I've met, you know."

"Strangest...? Wait, _small_ business?" Johnny put a hand on his chest. "I'll have you know, I—“

Someone called for Johnny from the kitchen. It seemed to be some sort of emergency, though Peter couldn't figure out what it was about. Something about praline.

Johnny looked back at Peter and held up one finger. "Hold that thought," he said.

Minutes ticked by, and someone else came over and refilled his coffee before Peter decided that Johnny wasn't going to come back. The bakery got busier and louder in the meantime. Peter wasn't very good at holding onto singular thoughts, anyway. His were always moving from one to another far too quickly. By the time the last crumbs of his thirteen dollar blueberry scone were gone, anything else he'd wanted to say to the baker had gone clean out of his head.

Weeping silently at the price after tax of his small breakfast, Peter pulled out the last of the cash from his wallet and left it at the counter. That included a 15% tip. He could barely afford it, but he didn't want to be an asshole.

The scone had been amazing, Peter thought. It was a shame that, in all likelihood, he would never eat one like that ever again in his life. The problem was that he was still fantasizing about the raspberry cream cheese danish he’d been planning on ordering. How had that baker hoodwinked him into buying something else? How had he even known that Peter would like the scone?

Johnny seemed like the kind of guy who would have given him a free danish out of a sense of pride if he’d complained. Then again, Peter wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince Johnny that he hadn’t enjoyed every bite of it, even if he were inclined to do so. It was a moot point.

“Next paycheck,” he told himself, making his way to the closest bus stop that would take him downtown. “I’ll come back and I’ll get that danish.”

—————

By the time Johnny had dealt with all the crises that cropped up in the kitchen, and managed to get back to the dining area to catch up with the photographer, Peter was gone. Disappointed, he took it upon himself to bus Peter’s dishes himself, since the guy they had working that duty today hadn’t gotten to it yet.

The meal had been paid for with with all small bills and a couple dollars in quarters. Johnny frowned and pushed the money around idly with a finger, which was when he noticed that Peter had doodled on his napkin. Between the capital letters of the name _Wake and Bake_ , and the circular design behind them, the photographer had scratched tight little spider web designs. There was a little spindly-legged spider crawling across the top of the “B”, and one hanging from a web underneath the “W”.

The guy had a thing for doodling, apparently. The little spiders made Johnny think of his friend Spider-Man, which in turn made something else occur to him.

Scooping up the cash and the check so that he could enter it in the cash register later, Johnny slipped through the kitchen and out the back door into the alley so that he could have a quiet moment with his phone. Two minutes later, he had his answer.

“Photo taken by Peter Parker,” he read aloud from the caption underneath a photo of Spider-Man on the Daily Bugle’s website. “Huh. No wonder his name was familiar.” That would also explain why Peter Parker was doodling spiders on his napkin.

Filing that information away for later, Johnny stuck his phone back into his pocket and headed back inside to continue his day.


	2. Onion Boy

It was a typical New York City Saturday. Tourists were swarming the sidewalks from all over the globe, people in costumes were nagging them in Times Square, folks who didn’t have to work on weekends were heading out for their afternoon and evening activities, Johnny Storm was having a nap after a very early start at the bakery, and a supervillain was attacking a major establishment.

Specifically, in this case, it was Mister Negative who was attacking at 1 PM in the afternoon, and his target was the Museum of Natural History.

An alarm sounded, waking Johnny up from a rather entertaining dream. He rubbed his eyes, then groped for the tablet he kept next to his bed to see what was going on. According to the message on his screen from Reed, Mister Negative was using a device that contained one of the materials on Reed’s watch list. Johnny didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t particularly care. All he knew was that the Fantastic Four were being called to action, so off he’d go.

Dashing out of bed, Johnny threw off his clothes and rushed into his F4 suit, strapping his mask onto his face and smearing gel into his hair to spike it up haphazardly. Before he got to his hidden rooftop access shaft, he glanced at himself in a mirror. He was still tired from his early morning. That morning, he’d had to wake up at 3 AM, had cycled all the way to the bakery, and had gotten started on four dozen pies for a wedding in the city. The lack of sleep showed in unfortunate, unattractive dark circles under his eyes.

Well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t run off on hero duty with even less sleep.

After a quick adjustment to the black mask, trying to hide those dark circles, he flamed on and shot through the tunnel up to the roof and out into the sky.

On his way uptown, Johnny received a message from Reed with further details about the attack. It was mostly standard stuff, so Johnny skimmed it over for new information.

Curious: what was Mister Negative doing attacking the Museum of _Natural History_? What the hell could he want from there? Johnny shook his head, shoved his arms out further in front of him, and blazed across Central Park towards the museum.

Out front, Reed and Sue were forcing their way through screaming, fleeing crowds to get into the doors. Johnny hovered over them, looking around for targets. There were a few ninja-looking baddies up on the roof, and Johnny swirled in the air around them, surrounding them with walls of fire.

“Reed!” he shouted down below. “What are they doing attacking at this time of day?”

“Doesn’t matter right now!” Reed called back, arms flailing across the steps to smack a masked henchman in the nose. “Ben’s in the street, just keep them contained!”

“Someone call for a containment unit?”

Johnny turned to see Spider-Man swinging onto the scene from down the street. “Spidey!”

“Yo Matchstick!”

“Spider-Man! We could use your help with civilians! Reed and I are going inside,” Sue called from the doorway.

Spider-Man attached himself to a wall near where Johnny floated. “If it’s Mister Negative, you _do_ know he’s one of mine, right?”

“Really? You’re going there?” Johnny said.

“Hey, I—“

Whatever Spider-Man was going to say was interrupted by a loud explosion down the street. A bright flash of light accompanied the noise, and a wave of heat that Johnny could sense down into his toes washed over them.

“Crowd control. Got it!” Spider-Man threw Reed and Sue a thumbs-up before he thwipped away towards the source of the blast.

“Come on, Thing, pick up the slack!” Johnny laughed, zooming past Ben on his way to help with the fires.

“I been here longer than you, brat!” Ben shouted, lowering his shoulders and barreling down the street. “Sleeping in again, huh?”

“Absolutely! I deserve my beauty rest!”

Ben knew damn well that Johnny had early mornings, but it was fun to play along.

Sirens and the shouts of terrified human beings drowned out Ben’s reply as Johnny crossed into the blast radius. He could hear Spider-Man’s retort, however.

“What do you need beauty rest for when you never show your face?” Spidey shouted, tugging on a web that was holding up half a building while people got out from under it. Johnny watched the corded muscles in his arms flexing, enjoying the sight.

“I’ll have you know, I have a face _worth_ showing,” Johnny reached out towards the smoking crater in the street where the bomb had gone off. He called to the flames with his power and pulled at them to absorb the heat. “It’s a tragedy that nobody knows just how handsome I am!”

“Yeah, Torch, you’re a tragedy all right,” Spider-Man said, shooting out more webbing to hold the collapsing structure in place.

Johnny crackled, and he blew flaming raspberries in Spider-Man’s direction.

Ben grunted as he lifted a truck that was lying on its side and righted it again. “If you two are done flirting, I can handle this job. Get inside with the others!”

“You’re not the boss of me!” Spider-Man called, swinging above Ben’s head to help a woman on the other side of the street.

“Are you _five_?” Johnny asked.

“Pretty sure I’m at least eight!”

Another explosion blasted out of a nearby subway entrance, this time with a lot more fire. More of Negative’s Inner Demons poured out from the stairwell to the other side of the tracks.

“It’s a diversion!” Ben said.

“No shit! It’s working!” Spider-Man said.

Johnny didn’t know a lot of specifics about Spider-Man’s collection of regular enemies, but one thing that he had picked up from Reed’s info packet was that these particular ninjas were tough to get rid of. He would be free to really let loose on them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny saw three Demons approaching Spider-Man from behind as he fought with another of their number. Now _that_ wasn’t going to fly with him. Angling himself towards the trio, Johnny shot flames at their feet, setting their ridiculous ninja outfits on fire. The bastards didn’t even scream as they lit up.

Spider-Man let out an angry cry. “What are you doing, Torch?!”

“Aren’t they immortal?” They had been after his friend, and Johnny had prioritized scorching their asses instead of worrying about _how_ immortal they were. He couldn’t just not do something about it.

Spider-Man slammed his fist into a ninja’s face before throwing his hands into the air. “Yeah, but you don’t—!”

“Forget the ninjas, Torch!” Thing said, interrupting Spider-Man’s moral outrage. “Take care of the fire in the subway!”

“Right.” Balling his fists, Johnny zoomed off to handle that problem. It might be harder to absorb the heat when a sudden inexplicable surge of hot indignation was flooding through him, but he’d manage.

Johnny managed just fine, which should not have been in question in the first place. In his time, he’d handled much hotter things than a street-level blaze. The battlefield irritation over a simple problem could have been because his complicated feelings regarding Spider-Man were rearing their head again, which was really one of the last things that he needed right then. Or ever, really.

When he’d finally reemerged from the subway, Spider-Man was gone, and the Demons were all webbed up. Civilian emergency services were on the scene, and Ben had informed him that the web-slinger had returned to the museum to give Sue and Reed some extra backup.

The two of them together headed that way to lend their efforts to the cause, while Johnny felt like he could’ve used a few more immortal Demons to incinerate.

—————

Negative escaped. If that wasn’t just typical for Peter’s luck, he didn’t know what was. The man had employed more diversionary tactics at the end, corrupting museum employees and guests and using them as innocent human shields. It was a nasty trick that Negative liked to play, and Spider-Man hated him for it almost more than he hated most of his enemies. It was very, very wrong to mess with someone’s free will, especially when it put them in danger.

The most likely place that Negative had disappeared to would have been the sewers under the museum. Spider-Man had attempted to get a spider tracer on him, but he must have found it, because it wound up attached to a poor security guard’s collar. When Peter had declared his intentions to go in after him, Sue Storm, the Invisible Woman, had instead roped him into cleanup duty. The woman had amazing guilt powers, and Reed had sent little seeker robots after Negative instead.

Spider-Man decided in the end that maybe helping to clean up the rubble was somewhat better than crawling through the filth underneath the city in a potentially fruitless search.

At least with the Fantastic Four around, Spider-Man was less likely to get harangued by police or reporters. Their credibility with the public rubbed off on him a bit when he was around them, for which he was immensely grateful. So, he could afford to stick around the scene and haul chunks of concrete and brick wall into neat piles, and drag demolished cars out of the way. Cleanup was only really a chore when people were throwing rotten vegetables at him.

The Human Torch was on cleanup duty himself, which afforded them the chance to catch up a little. Spider-Man hadn’t seen him in a while, and with the whole secret identity business it was impractical to meet up for coffee.

“Hey, Torch, you making yourself useful over there?” Spider-Man shouted from underneath a half-ton chunk of wall.

Torch was, at that moment, using his powers to flame-cut a totaled truck into more manageable pieces of garbage to be hauled away. “I’m always doing something useful! I am the most useful person.”

Spider-Man, with a grunt, tossed the wall into a nearby pile, and dusted his hands together. “It must suck having to play janitor in your off hours. They still have you doing that at the Baxter Building, right?” He jogged over to grab the cold front end of the truck and lift it into the air. With his strength, he was easily able to heft it fully over his head while he looked up at the man on fire floating nearby.

“Hah!” Torch flew in a circle once around Spider-Man. “If I _were_ their janitor, I bet it’d still be better than _your_ day job. Besides,” he shrugged, “Mister Fantastic has robots for that. I never have to get my hands dirty.”

Spider-Man threw the piece of truck casually at him, which Torch of course evaded with a laugh. “Speaking of dirty hands,” Peter said, jerking his thumb towards where Sue was working with EMTs. “I think we’re good here. We should go help Sue administer first aid.”

The Human Torch landed next to him, and the flames engulfing his body disappeared. All but those around his head, that is. The guy was like a literal matchstick. It was certainly one way to keep a secret identity; the flames even obscured his voice. Spider-Man had long gotten used to the hiss and crackle that accompanied Torch’s speech, but for a while it had been a bit unnerving in how otherworldly it was.

“Yeah, sure.” Torch lifted an eyebrow and grinned. “Say, you wanna go out for a drink after this?”

The request startled Peter, and he took half a second longer to take his next step because of it. “Nah, Spider-Man doesn’t drink.”

“Oh, _right_ ,” Torch said, pointing at him. “There was that _thing_ …”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter cleared his throat. The “thing” that Torch was referring to was a rather embarrassing memory he didn’t want to dredge up again. He was only lucky that it hadn’t had a worse outcome. So, while Peter Parker sometimes drank a little, Spider-Man never touched a drop of alcohol.

Torch opened his glowing mouth to say something else, but Sue called them over for urgent assistance. With his ability to absorb heat, Torch could bring a lot of relief to the victims of the fires and explosions whose conditions were not bad enough for them to get rushed off to the hospital just yet.

“ _Now_ who’s making himself useful?” Torch teased Spider-Man, whose best efforts in first aid were relegated to applying bandages and fetching things for Sue that she could easily get herself.

“Shut your pie hole,” Peter snapped back.

“Cherry pie, or apple?” Torch’s head-flames brightened and rippled with his laughter; a bit more laughter than Peter would have expected. Even Sue smirked at them from nearby, which just confused Peter more.

“What?” It wasn’t _that_ funny.

Torch shook his head and waved a hand at him dismissively. Irritated, Peter growled and stalked off towards the Fantasticar to look for more insta-cast material for a man with a broken leg. If the Fantastic Four were anything, it was well equipped. Probably a result of Reed’s obsessive genius combined with Susan’s pragmatism.

The moment that police detectives showed up and began asking questions, Spider-Man made a hasty exit. First aid and hauling rubble were fine, but answering cops’ questions? That wasn’t going to work for him. He made it an entire block away, crawling across the rooftops to avoid notice, before he felt a rush of heat off to one side.

“Yo, Webs.”

Spider-Man crouched on the roof ledge and looked up at Torch. “Whatcha want, Flamebrain?”

“You said you don’t drink, but I know you eat,” Torch said, touching down on the roof next to him. One of his hands was flamed off, and Peter could see that he held a sack of hot dogs from one of the nearby street carts.

Spider-Man lifted his chin and gave a loud sniff. “Is there relish?”

“Yes. I even got you dill relish.”

Spider-Man grabbed the offered hot dog and lifted the bottom of his mask up over his nose to take a large bite. “You’re a pal,” he said around a half-chewed mouthful.

“And your manners are just as bad as ever,” the Human Torch said with a chuckle. The flames around his head crept up off the bottom half of his face when he took a bite out of his own dog.

“It’s been a long day, I didn’t eat breakfast,” Peter said.

Dangling his legs off the side of the roof, Torch made a clicking noise with his tongue. The flames engulfed his head fully once more before he spoke. “Good nutrition is important, dude, haven’t I always told you?”

“You’re eating a hot dog too, if you didn’t notice,” Peter said.

It was always strange to eat with Torch, because up and down the flames would go in-between when the guy took bites and when he spoke. Peter couldn’t blame him for that, though. After all, he changed his own voice when he was Spider-Man. It sure seemed more convenient for Torch to be able to set himself on fire to achieve the same effect.

“Once in a while is fine,” Torch said. “So, Spidey, if drinks are off, how about we go bowling instead?”

Peter nearly choked on a blob of ketchup. “ _Bowling?_ ” He coughed and pounded on his chest. “Are you serious?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Bowling.”

Torch gave him a look and held up his hands. “Uh, _yeah_ , why not?”

“Can you really picture the two of us in a bowling alley?”

“Uh-huh, that’s why I asked. What’s so bad about bowling?”

There was a long list of reasons Peter could think of why it would be a bad idea. “Besides the obvious?” He started ticking off on his fingers. “Proportional strength and agility of a spider, here. Not much of a challenge. Plus, you are literally on fire.” He tilted his head towards Torch. “Plus, I have to get up in the morning.”

“So do I. I’m not asking you out clubbing.”

“I have _stuff_ to do tonight.”

Torch took a minute to chew up another bite of food while a moment of tense silence passed between them. “Okay, what about Tuesday? We can go out and get burgers like we used to.”

Burger Tuesdays had been years ago. It had started as a competition between the two of them during their more heated rivalry years. They would come up with contests, both in and outside of superhero battles, and whoever lost had to buy burgers. After a while it had morphed into more of a friendly get-together, and they’d simply take turns paying for food. Despite still getting irritated with each other now and again, their rivalry was more amicable than it had been when they’d both been young teenagers.

Then Peter had gotten into college, had started dating Gwen, and had been too busy with all the changes in his life to continue. Even though Torch was his only true superhero friend. Things had never really settled down since then, and they’d never gone back to the tradition. Between his teaching job, taking photos for the Bugle, and beating up bad guys, he hadn’t left time for burgers. And after Gwen passed…

That left him wondering why Torch was being so insistent about it, to the point where he’d chased him down just now with the hot dogs.

“What, you lonely or something, Torch? When you’ve got the rest of the Fantastic Four?”

Torch shrugged, reaching up to pick something out of his teeth. “Sure, but you don’t.”

That gave Peter pause. He was quiet for a few moments, thinking, trying to ignore the way the Torch was leaning closer to him with a big grin and wagging his eyebrows.

“Yeah, okay. Tuesday is fine,” he agreed finally. It wouldn’t be difficult to squeeze in time for a burger with his superhero bestie.

Torch’s flames brightened. “Awesome! Usual spot? Seven o’clock? I’m buying!”

“Sure, but you bought hot dogs.” Peter held up the remains of his. “I can buy.”

“My idea though. Plus, I can afford it. They pay janitors _very_ well at the Baxter Building.” Torch was obviously excited, fire licking down his neck over his shoulders. “Also, you don’t know what I want on mine.

Peter laughed at him. “And you remember what I want on _mine_?” It wasn’t his business to wonder what Torch did in his off hours, but sometimes he couldn’t help himself. He was convinced that Torch was not at all a janitor.

“No cheese, double onion, lettuce, tomato, and mayo,” Torch said.

Blinking, Peter nodded. “Okay, okay, you got me.”

Shoving the rest of the hot dog into his mouth, Peter wadded up his garbage and tossed it at Torch. Torch obliged him and incinerated it into fine ash that blew away in the perpetual breeze that whistled across the New York City skyline.

“See you Tuesday up on the Brooklyn Bridge, then,” he said, standing up. Stretching over his head, he thwipped a line across the street and leapt from the building to head on his way home.

“See ya,” Torch said to his retreating form.

—————

Upstairs at the Baxter Building, in the Fantastic Four’s private rooms, Johnny pulled his mask off and shook his hair loose. He ran his fingers through it and found the nearest mirror so that he could make sure it was all in order. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder and nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Ha!” Ben said, leaning over to look at him in the reflection. “I see you made a date with the boyfriend.”

“Excuse you!” Johnny said, pulling his shoulder away and scowling at the rocky mountain of a man. “He is not my boyfriend, and it is not a date.” Rolling his shoulders, he tugged at the waist of his uniform to loosen its grip around his neck. “Is it so wrong to want to spend time with another member of the community?”

Ben snorted. “The ‘community’? Which community is that, then?”

Johnny bared his teeth and shot a ball of fire into Ben’s face. “The _hero_ community, you big orange lug. Why don’t you stick to watching football?” Whirling on his heel, he stalked away from Thing towards the kitchen, where he could hear someone messing around with the microwave. There would be coffee, probably, and Johnny also felt the urge to bake a huge batch of cookies.

“Well, Matchstick, ya whined so much when Spider-Man cancelled your weekly burgers, ya may as well’ve been dumped,” Ben said, thumping off into the living area attached to the kitchen. He plopped down into his reinforced chair and waved a huge hand in the air. “Come on, Johnny, I know Spidey’s a pal, but it’s not like you don’t have things to do. You’ve got the bakery.”

“Hey, Johnny,” Sue said, passing by her brother and giving him a pat-and-squeeze on the shoulder. “You ready for the debriefing?”

Johnny shrugged. “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t want to think about their failure today, and what Reed was going to say about it. “Look, Ben, the Human Torch needs company too, you know.” He put a hand on his chest. “I have _layers_.”

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “Sure, onion boy, I know. You got layers. Nobody’s gonna begrudge you a boys’ night out.”

“Ben,” Sue started.

“No, sis, I can handle this.” Johnny straightened his back, smoothed a hand back through his hair, and showed Ben his middle finger.

Ignoring Ben’s cackling, he headed for the pantry to pull out a container of flour for his cookies.

The elevator dinged, and Reed stepped out, an electronic gadget in one hand and a data pad in the other. “All right, folks, let’s go over what we know about what Mister Negative was up to, why we failed to catch him, and where he might have gone. Johnny? What are you doing?”

“I’m making a batch of _loser_ cookies,” Johnny said, stuffing his arms full of ingredients, which he then proceeded to dump on the counter.

“We didn’t lose, Johnny,” Susan said. “We were outmaneuvered. There’s a difference.”

“Not _much_ of a difference,” Johnny retorted.

“He’s just mad because I wuz teasin’ him about Spider-Man dumping him way back when.”

“Spider-Man didn’t dump me! We weren’t even dating!”

“Well, try and keep up with the meeting anyway,” Reed said, using an indulgent tone that Johnny hated.

Johnny slammed a mixer down to show what he thought of that.


	3. Pop Tarts

“Hey, boss.”

Johnny looked up from the mixing bowl in front of him, finger stuck between his lips, and a smear of icing on his chin. He sucked his finger clean and wiped it on his apron. “Hey, Kelly,” he said.

Kelly extended her arm, holding out a newspaper in her hand. “The article about you finally published.” She grinned, shoving the copy of the Daily Bugle at him more forcefully.

It had been another early Sunday morning. Johnny was in to get the bakery started for the day to handle the rest of the weekend traffic, then he would be out of there. As anxious as he was waiting for the article, the paper hadn’t been delivered yet when he’d opened up the back of the shop. Then he’d gotten absorbed in his tasks and had almost forgotten about it.

Johnny grabbed it, a pleased grin splitting his face in two. “Yes!” He opened up the newspaper and flipped the pages back before he realized that she’d already had it folded with the article on top. “Thank you. Ahmed, finish up with this icing, would you please? It needs more almond.”

Stepping out of the way of his employees, Johnny leaned against the counter near the coffee machine to read the article. The workers were curious, and interrupted him frequently to ask him about it, so he had to reassure them multiple times that he’d share when he was done.

Once finished with the article, Johnny pursed his lips and looked around his shop. Several faces gave him expectant looks, and he grinned. “Glowing, absolutely glowing praise! I want it framed!” He turned and pointed to a blank space of wall over one of the cash registers. “Right here. We’ll frame it for everyone to see.”

“What does it say?”

“Oh, only what you’d expect. You all are productive and skilled, I’m charming and handsome, and our pastries are the best.” He looked down at the paper again, studying each of the photos that had been chosen to accompany the piece.

That photographer, Peter, really was good. The photos were amazing. They had interesting framing, optimal use of available light, and the narrow focus on the closeup of a croissant brought out all the best in its texture. It made Johnny want to eat one, and he got to eat them all the time. All of Peter’s photos basically made his bakery look the best that it could, and Johnny was pleased as punch.

It had been three weeks since the interview. Three weeks since Betty and Peter had come in together, and Peter had taken these photos. The photographer had been in twice after that—once when he’d done the little doodles on the napkin, and another time he’d just gotten a coffee and left within ten minutes—but Johnny had been too busy the second time to talk to him again. Perhaps it was a little silly, but he hoped that he’d see Peter again. Obviously the man was a major nerd, but something about him was intriguing anyway, and Johnny couldn’t help that he wanted to get to know him a little.

It _wasn’t_ because Peter Parker was the guy who took all the best Spider-Man photos.

Okay, that was _a_ reason, but not the _only_ reason. It just made him more interesting. A large number of those photos were taken at extreme angles and in dangerous situations; it wasn’t just any guy who would have that kind of daring while otherwise coming across as somewhat ordinary.

The only way Johnny was going to be able to have a decent chat with Peter would be if he saw him outside the bakery, but between work and Human Torch duties he didn’t have a lot of extra free time to run into people while he was out and about. Something told him that he and mister Parker didn’t run around in the same circles, either. The chances of them bumping into each other were slim to none anyway.

With this article coming out, it was as good a time as any to redesign his website. He’d need new photos for that, and to get new photos he’d need a photographer. Yes, he could just take the photos himself, but Peter had proved that he knew what he was doing in that area. Significantly better than Johnny did. If he hired Peter to take the photos, that’d be a perfect excuse.

Johnny was not a patient person, but the last thing that he wanted to do was call the Bugle and ask for Peter Parker’s phone number directly. That was too formal, and possibly a little on the desperate and or creepy side. He wanted to do it face to face, which meant he’d have to wait for the next time Parker visited the bakery. Hopefully he wouldn’t come around while Johnny wasn’t there.

If Peter _did_ come in again. Their prices were on the high side, Johnny knew. Overhead costs were expensive on Madison Avenue, and he paid his staff decent living wages. So _if_ Peter returned, Johnny would take it as a sign.

“Okay, people,” Johnny clapped his hands in the air, walking back into the kitchen. “Who wants to take the boss’s money and go buy me thirty copies of today’s newspaper?”

About eight hands went up; everyone liked doing errands for Johnny because they got to leave work for a while. Whenever there was a conflict, he would choose a different game of chance each time to determine who got to go.

“Today’s deciding game is rock paper scissors.”

Everyone groaned.

—————

When the article came out in the paper about Johnny’s bakery, Peter didn’t notice right away. It wasn’t until he went into the office to pick up his paycheck that he found out it had been published. Betty came at him, waving a copy of the previous Sunday’s issue in his face.

“I thought you’d be all over this the moment it came out,” she said. She held it out for him. “Take a peek. Your photos look great.”

Peter took it from her, raising his eyebrows. “That’s right! That was yesterday! My aunt has been looking forward to the article; she’s going to swat me for not calling her about it.” He flipped open the paper and thumbed the edges to find the food and culture section. “Actually, I’m surprised that _she_ didn’t call _me_.” Except he hadn’t checked his voicemail at his apartment in three days. He should probably get on that.

Betty rolled her eyes at him. “You’re hopeless sometimes, Peter.”

“Yes, I’ve been told this before. I don’t think you should change your expectations any time soon.”

“You’ll always exceed them, regardless.”

Tucking the newspaper under his armpit, Peter gave her a little bow. She waved her hands at him and walked off, leaving him chuckling to himself.

The newspaper stayed tucked under his arm all the way to the payroll office, out the door again, and halfway to Midtown High where he taught science. When he got there, he discovered that it had slipped out of his grasp somewhere along the way when he hadn’t been paying enough attention. Probably left behind on the subway. Well, he could get another copy later, but he wouldn’t be able to read the article during his lunch break like he’d planned.

Peter called his aunt when he was done with work. As he’d predicted she would, she scolded him for not calling her immediately so that she could be proud of him properly to his face. Or, to his ear over the phone. Whatever.

In return, he promised to go back to the bakery the next morning and buy something for her. It seemed to satisfy her, and since he was starting to crave those pastries again himself it would additionally suit him just fine.

Wanting to give himself plenty of wiggle room with his available time in the morning, Peter set his alarm an hour earlier than he normally did. After his usual late night swinging around the city, it was going to be hell, but hey, not only was he used to it, but he was pretty sure he remembered Wake and Bake having a jumpstart coffee blend on the menu. It was as strong as he could handle the caffeine without making him too jittery to function.

A bit bleary eyed, he entered the bakery, the bell over the door ringing almost too loud after the quiet of the early morning city stillness. The sign up front said _Please Seat Yourself_. Too early for a seating host, apparently. Smacking his lips sleepily, he made for the bar seats at the counter.

When his tongue swiped over his teeth, too late Peter realized that he hadn’t brushed them before crashing last night. With the hope that nobody was watching, he rubbed at his mouth with a discreet corner of his sleeve.

A waitress who was entirely too alert for the early hour came by to ask him what he wanted, and he told her without taking much of a look at her.

Smacking himself sharply on the cheek to try and bring himself to a greater level of alertness, Peter groped around in his pocket for a pen he could use to scribble on his napkin. Maybe it would wake him up a little bit so that he could get his thoughts in order and decide what kind of pastry he was going to take to his aunt.

A saucer and a cup with the decorative W&B logo clinked as they were set on the counter in front of him. Eager to be sucking down the coffee that smelled so excellent, he failed to notice that it wasn’t the waitress he’d spoken to who was pouring it.

“Well, I see we’re not your favorite establishment yet.”

Peter looked up to see Johnny Storm pouring coffee for him. Again. Was it the man’s habit to serve drinks for his customers?

It didn’t register in his brain right away, what Johnny said. “Huh?” Peter said, like a genius.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Johnny said. Setting the pot down, he leaned over the counter and grinned. “Your photos were top notch, by the way.”

“Thanks.” The coffee was too hot on Peter’s lips when he tried to take a sip, so he blew on it gently. Around an enormous yawn, he said, “Unstable schedule.” Once he got some coffee past his tongue, it really hit the spot, and he could feel himself start perking up almost that instant. Almost.

“Mm, I see,” Johnny said cryptically.

Peter, curious about Johnny’s manner but too tired to say anything about it, inhaled the smell of his coffee and took another sip. Still too hot, he winced a bit.

“Any way I can pin you down this weekend?”

Peter spat out the mouthful of coffee he’d managed. Coughing and sputtering an apology, he reached for the napkin dispenser. Beating him to it, Johnny wiped the counter with a rag. That had been absolutely embarrassing.

“You what?” Peter said, hiding his mouth behind a napkin. He was pretty sure that Johnny didn’t mean what he’d said the way it had sounded like.

Johnny laughed and topped off Peter’s coffee. “You gonna live?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter wiped coffee off his fingers and frowned up at Johnny. “Pin me down for what?”

“I need some new photos for my website, actually, and yours were so great I’d like to hire you to take shots of my kitchen at home.” Johnny raised an eyebrow. “That is, unless you have some kind of non-compete clause with the Bugle or something.”

“No, I’m strictly freelance,” Peter said. He blew on his drink. “Is your personal kitchen more advanced than the one here? I could sell you the rest of the photos I took before.”

Johnny shook his head, and turned to set the coffee pot on the warmer behind him. “No, but it’s much prettier. My equipment is all shiny chrome and bright colors.” Something mischievous entered his expression and he smirked. “But, if you don’t want to take the job…”

Oh no, Peter definitely could use the extra money. Plus there was something challenging about Johnny’s demeanor and he couldn’t say no now even if he wanted to. He threw up a hand. “Whoa, I’m definitely not saying that. I just figured you might want to save some time. Where do you live?”

“Off of Bryant Park,” Johnny said.

Color Peter unsurprised. Of course the owner of a Madison Avenue establishment would have a swanky apartment by the library. Peter didn’t know how much time he’d spent in that area between visiting the library, the nearby bookshop, or playing checkers with his uncle when he was younger. At some times of the day, the surrounding buildings looked so attractive shining in the sun.

“Must have a nice view,” was all Peter said about it.

Johnny leaned over the counter again and folded his fingers under his chin. “So? Will you?”

Peter swirled the coffee in his mug and tapped a fingernail on the rim. “Welp, I can’t say no to the money. This weekend, you said? When, exactly?”

“Saturday around two work for you? Unless you have plans?”

“That’s fine. I never have plans. Things just happen and I do them.”

Johnny raised an eyebrow. “You seem so organized. I find that hard to believe.”

“Ha! Just wait until you get to know me better, you won’t.”

Johnny blinked at him and grinned. “Have the coffee on me,” he said simply, punching Peter on the shoulder.

Peter left the bakery fifteen minutes later with a to-go cup of coffee, another free pastry (giving away $20 worth of merchandise repeatedly was not a very sound business practice, Peter thought, but he wasn’t going to complain), and an address for an apartment off of Bryant Park. And maybe there was a little more of a spring in his step. The prospect of a little extra cash in his wallet was certainly a welcome one, and Johnny was not bad company.

—————

The following Saturday, Peter hopped onto the subway to get into Manhattan, and made his way to the stop that came up behind the big library into Bryant Park. As was expected on a summer Saturday afternoon, there were people everywhere. They were filling the grassy area with picnics, sitting at all available tables, chattering in line at the coffee kiosk, with children riding on the merry-go-round. Fat pigeons watched from the trees and swooped down for every dropped crumb from someone’s deli sandwich or croissant.

Shading his eyes against the sun’s glare, Peter looked across the way towards the building he was sure was Johnny’s. Hiking his camera bag higher up on his shoulder, he meandered through the crowd.

Finding the correct address, he went up to the door to greet the door man.

_Of course Johnny has a door man_.

The fellow looked Peter up and down and said, “May I help you?”

“Uh… Storm residence. I’m expected.”

The man looked at a tablet he kept at his hip and nodded. “Mister Parker?”

“Last time I checked, yep.”

Peter was pointed to the elevator and given access, his brain churning with a deeper understanding of how much money Johnny must actually have to afford to live here. Meeting him in the bakery, covered in flour and cinnamon with his hair wrapped up in that bandana, he had looked like an average baker. Peter was going to have to adjust his perception of the guy accordingly.

In addition to that revelation, and feeling very out of place in this fancy environment, Peter was a little nervous about his first serious paying photography gig outside of working for the Bugle. He’d had little jobs before, but nothing that felt actually important. This felt important for some reason, even though he knew it was just for Johnny’s website.

The elevator dinged, Peter exited, and walked the few paces down a hallway lit with stained glass fixtures that offered sufficient but not overbearing illumination. After a sharp rap on Johnny’s door, it was only a few moments before it opened and the man himself stood there grinning at Peter. The polo shirt Johnny wore was almost ridiculous—large stylized patterns in red, orange, and yellow—but by some sort of magic he managed to make it work. If Peter wore that same shirt, he’d look like a used car salesman. A _bad_ used car salesman.

“Peter! Bienvenue á chez moi!”

“Huh?”

“I dunno, it’s French.” Johnny waved a hand to usher Peter inside. “Come on in. Do you want something to drink? I’ve got pretty much everything.”

“Do you have Diet Coke?”

“Sure thing.”

Peter followed, curious to see what the home of someone like Johnny would look like. The foyer—yeah he had a full foyer here—led directly into the dining room and kitchen. His furniture was very modern and sleek, but not so cold and inorganic that the ficus in the corner looked out of place. The walls were decorated in artwork that looked like it was more according Johnny’s personal taste than what was on the walls at the bakery: a minimalist painting of a hot rod, a swirling painting of an outer space nebula, and a poster of the Fantastic Four.

Approaching this last one, Peter couldn’t help but smile to himself. It was a very nice poster, and it was custom framed as well, with a matting and everything. Something like that was very expensive.

“Big fan of the Fantastic Four, huh?”

Johnny came up behind him with the soda and knocked it gently against Peter’s shoulder. He shook his head and laughed. “Uh-huh.”

That reaction confused Peter, and he frowned a little as he took the drink. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Wait, you’re serious?” Johnny narrowed his eyes slightly. “Didn’t you read that article that you came all the way to my bakery to take photos for?”

Peter couldn’t help the flush that crept onto his cheeks and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Er… no. I didn’t have the time.” He really hadn’t, but that excuse suddenly felt rather thin.

“I think I’ll manage not to be insulted,” Johnny said, smacking Peter on the back. “The Invisible Woman is my sister, Peter. Of course I’m a fan of the Fantastic Four.”

Peter blinked, looked at Susan on the poster, then looked back at Johnny, _finally_ seeing the resemblance. “Oh! Okay, wow, I feel very stupid now.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll never call you that to your face,” Johnny said. Peter caught the hint of something in Johnny’s voice that made him determined to read that article as soon as possible to avoid any further slip ups. Johnny sure kept him on his toes.

“Is the Human Torch really a janitor?” Peter blurted out, unable to stop his curiosity.

Johnny let out a guffaw and slid a hand through his hair. “You’re not asking me to reveal his secret identity, are you?”

“Well no, I—“

“Because, you know, I don’t know who he really is, but my sister does say that he used to clean for her. You might as well call him a janitor.” Johnny folded his arms and smirked at the poster. “Probably the least useful one of them. Easily replaced by a good flamethrower or a blowtorch.”

“Hey, the Fantastic Four wouldn’t be the Fantastic Four without the Human Torch.” Peter bristled, feeling the need to defend his secret superhero friend. “Do you have something against him personally?”

“Nah, it’s cool, I give him shit all the time! He doesn’t mind. Anyway,” Johnny slapped his hands together. “Into the kitchen! I’m going to make cookies and turnovers, put on some music—do you mind 311?—and you’ll do your thing.” He went for the broom closet next to one of three refrigerators and pulled out a red apron.

Peter set his camera bag down on the breakfast table and took the camera out. “Do you have anything specific in mind for this?” He waved a hand in the air, gesturing around the kitchen.

Johnny pursed his lips. “You know, I’m more concerned with getting new content on the website. Your pics in the Bugle were great, and I think I’m going to trust your instincts and not get in your way.” He flipped the apron over his head and tied it. The front of it said _Hot Buns_. Peter thought that suited Johnny perfectly.

“My instincts, huh?”

“Anyone with the versatility to take nice photos of both snail danishes and Spider-Man in action is worth trusting with a camera.”

Peter didn’t remember saying anything about being Spider-Man’s photographer to Johnny. “Oh, you made that connection?” Fiddling with his camera as a distraction, he didn’t look at Johnny’s face. He had to change settings for the light in the kitchen anyway, because he hadn’t expected Johnny to actually have a large window with sunlight and everything. He must have a corner unit, the lucky bastard.

While he did that, Johnny was selecting supplies from his cabinets, including a stick of warm butter.

“It’s no wonder you’ve got an ‘unstable schedule’ if you’re always out risking your neck chasing Spider-Man,” Johnny said, taking a stand mixer out and setting it on the counter. Big surprise, it was bright red with flames painted on it. It looked like automotive detailing. Peter wondered how much _that_ had cost.

“Hey, I’ve been taking his photos since I was fifteen, and I’ve never been—seriously hurt.”

Johnny cut him off with a laugh. “Nah, it’s fine! Guy’s gotta make a living somehow, right? I bet it’s pretty exciting.”

“It’d be a better living if Jameson would buy my photos of anything else, but he just wants Spidey,” Peter said. “Nice apron, by the way.”

“‘Hot Buns’ is appropriate in many ways,” Johnny winked. He cut the stick of butter in half, and tossed both halves into the mixer while Peter started taking photos.

“I bet it is,” Peter said absently while he focused his lens on a set of hanging utensils.

“So when you showed up at my bakery, that was a fluke?” Johnny asked. “If your boss doesn’t normally buy more mundane photos from you.” He measured out sugar and added it to the mixer bowl.

“Pretty much,” Peter said, looking for a good angle of the equipment Johnny was using. It _had_ to be custom painted. He didn’t ever recall seeing a KitchenAid mixer with flames on it. “It was Betty’s influence, actually. She’s an old friend, and she knew I could use the cash. Day job doesn’t pay a whole lot.”

Johnny flicked the mixer on, explaining that he was creaming the sugar and butter together first, so that the rest of the dough would blend better. “Being a photographer isn’t your day job?”

“No, I’m a teacher. Science.”

“Science teacher?” Johnny’s mouth quirked and he started cracking eggs into a liquid measuring cup. “You really like science, or did you fall into that?”

Peter found a set of containers with baking ingredients neatly labeled on the outside, and lined them up so that he could take an artsy photo of them. “Science has always been my passion,” he said. “It’s photography that I fell into.”

“If you like science so much, you’d probably like to meet my brother-in-law.”

Peter thought for a moment, putting together the new information he’d learned about Johnny. “Reed Richards?” he said. He’d met Reed as Spider-Man, of course, but he’d never had the opportunity to meet him as a fellow scientist. As himself. It was always different, meeting someone as Peter Parker versus meeting them as Spider-Man.

“Yep, that’s the one.” Johnny pulled out a set of sturdy but well-used measuring cups and spoons and added together flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, and cinnamon into a large bowl. The mixer spun on in the background, a lot more quietly than Peter expected. He wondered if Reed had modified it for Johnny or if it was just a newer model. His aunt’s stand mixer was noisy as hell, putting out a high pitched whine every time she used it.

“Have you been in his lab? How many experiments does he usually have running at one time?” Peter felt the science side of him perk up, and it was suddenly all he wanted to talk about.

Johnny took a whisk and mixed up the dry ingredients, giving Peter a dubious look. “Hate to disappoint you, but I’m not much of a scientist at all. I have no idea. He starts yammering on about something and I start thinking about cars or recipes.”

Peter resisted the urge to ask more questions about Reed while Johnny finished mixing the dough and prepping a cookie sheet. He wasn’t sure what he should and shouldn’t ask anyway, since he technically already knew Reed. It would be easier to not talk about him at all than to have to figure out how to lie about prior knowledge. Or risk revealing that he knew things that only someone who had worked with Reed would know. Peter had _seen_ the lab, even if he hadn’t spent any significant time there.

While Johnny finished up with the cookies, Peter went around the kitchen taking more photos. Better to take too many than not enough, even if half of these would get deleted before he even showed them to Johnny later. He even got nice shots of Johnny while he worked. In the sunlight pouring through the window, Johnny’s hair shone as bright as his smile. Baking clearly brought out the best mood in him, and he had that attractive glow about him of someone doing what they loved.

Peter knew the feeling. When he was deep in a science project, everything else fell away, and he never felt greater satisfaction than when he solved a problem. It was an interesting flip, recognizing that joy on someone else.

Maybe he stared a little too long, because Johnny tilted his head towards him and lifted an eyebrow.

“Trying to get the light right,” Peter said in a rush, embarrassed. What was he embarrassed for? He was getting _paid_ to take Johnny’s picture.

That would require actually holding the camera up to _take_ a picture, but he didn’t want to dwell on that.

The cookies went into the oven, and while they were baking Johnny put six turnovers together.

“You know, baking is sort of a science,” Peter said, watching through his camera lens as Johnny pinched the edges of the turnovers together. “The baking powder and soda have to be in the right proportions don’t they? And the baking soda helps balance the pH levels when you add acidic ingredients, right?”

Aunt May had tried to teach him some of these principles once or twice while he’d been growing up. He’d remembered the chemistry parts, and nothing else.

Johnny looked up from his work and raised an eyebrow. “You know, Reed keeps trying to convince me I’m actually a scientist, too. I’m not buying it. It’s food. Food is good and interesting.”

Peter leaned his back against the counter and crossed one ankle over the other. “He’s not wrong.”

Johnny shrugged. “I like food better than chemistry.”

“I think I almost like your pastries better than chemistry, too. Almost.”

“Almost? I guess I’m not trying hard enough.”

“Not gonna lie, food does taste better when it’s free, and you keep giving me freebies,” Peter said. “Not that I’m complaining!”

Johnny laughed.

The cookies were done by the time the turnovers were ready to go into the oven. “These are going to take a while,” Johnny said. “Why don’t we head into the living room? You can get pictures in there, too, if you want, or take a break.”

“I mean, you’re the one paying me. Do you _want_ me to take photos in the living room?” Peter scrolled through the shots he’d already taken as they made their way into the other room.

“I care more about the kitchen,” Johnny said. He pointed out the seating in the living room. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to get something to snack on. You want a beer?”

“No thanks, I think I’m good.”

Alone in the room, Peter put his camera down and took a good look around. There were plants hanging in the large windows, and on the available wall space were black and white photos from around New York City, another photo of the Fantastic Four, and a portrait photo of Johnny with his sister. Peter froze when his eyes hit a painting hanging above Johnny’s 70-inch television. It was a watercolor painting, rendered in artistic red and blue splashes, the figure outlined in thick black ink. It was _him_.

Well. It was Spider-Man.

This was not a small painting, either. Furthermore, it was framed as nicely as the poster in the dining room. That wasn’t a surprise, considering the rest of Johnny’s decor, but it was a surprise to see nice artwork of _himself_ hanging there. He’d seen paintings and drawings of Spider-Man at various times in the past, but somehow this was a whole lot more flattering. Having the Fantastic Four on the wall was understandable; they were Johnny’s family—the Human torch notwithstanding. Spider-Man, however, had zero connection to Johnny Storm the baker.

Johnny reentered the living area, carrying a tray of chips, veggies, and dip in one hand, and a beer in the other.

“Hey, where did you get this watercolor?” Peter asked, trying to keep his voice calm, while inside he felt a wash of conflicting emotions.

Johnny set his goods down on the coffee table in front of his large leather sofa and sat down. “You like it?”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful,” Peter said. “Where’d you get it?”

“I was practicing some techniques for watercolor cake decorating.” Johnny cracked open his beer and took a swallow.

Peter’s heart lurched up into his throat. “ _You_ painted that?”

Johnny gave Peter a smug look. “Yeah, well, sometimes you need something to do while waiting on things the oven.”

Peter ran a hand back through his hair and smirked, turning to stare back up at the watercolor. “Funny, I pictured you more the type to watch TV when you’re bored.”

“Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I start cleaning up. But, you know, it _is_ possible to watch TV and paint simultaneously.”

It was incredibly unfair how talented Johnny was, on top of having money and being outrageously handsome. Peter wasn’t jealous, but—Well, shit, he was. A little bit. It was muddled up with other feelings, like the little fluttering in his chest where he’d just expect awkwardness from meeting one of Spider-Man’s fans.

Before he could ask _why_ Johnny had painted Spider-Man, of all the things he could have painted, Johnny said, “I based it off of one of your photos, actually. Didn’t realize you were Spidey’s personal photographer until the article came out, though.”

Peter swallowed and looked at the painting again, tilting his head a bit. “Ah, yeah, looks sort of familiar.”

“And that butt of his.”

Nearly choking on his tongue, Peter coughed. “What about his butt?”

Johnny laughed and pounded a fist gently on his back. “You telling me you’ve been taking his photos for all these years and haven’t noticed he has a nice butt?”

Peter’s skin felt hot where Johnny touched him. “Usually when I’m taking his picture there are more important things to worry about other than his butt.” That wasn’t necessarily true, but the lie rolled off his tongue easily. “Sometimes it’s the Rhino, sometimes it’s the Green Goblin, you know. Life threatening danger.” Peter wished that the heat would leave his cheeks. The last thing he needed was some kind of embarrassment like this to blow his identity.

It didn’t help him that his brain helpfully commented how Johnny had a nice butt, too.

“You like living dangerously, Peter?” Johnny popped a baby carrot into his mouth from the tray.

Peter grabbed a handful of chips, ignoring the vegetables completely. “Not especially, but I like getting paid. And that’s what a zoom lens is for.”

The rest of the time spent waiting for the turnovers to finish baking they spent talking about current events around the city. Johnny knew more about sports, and Peter knew more about street level crime.

Peter got more photos while Johnny iced the pastries. When he started packing up to go, Johnny shoved a box in his direction.

“Here, take this with you,” Johnny said.

Peter zipped his camera bag shut and then took the box. It was warm on the bottom. “What’s this?” Lifting the lid, he saw that Johnny had filled it with two of the turnovers and probably all of the cookies. “Okay, how much are you deducting from my check for these?”

“Nothing, I just want your firstborn child.”

Peter snorted. “I’m not even pregnant.” Johnny laughed. “Really, though, I can’t—“

“Just take ‘em. I can’t eat all that.” Johnny patted his flat stomach. “Gotta watch my figure. It’s tough baking sweets all day and not getting fat.”

Peter sucked his teeth and eyed the box in his hands. He didn’t want to seem too eager to take these home, but he _desperately_ wanted to take them home. It tickled him that Johnny would just give him this, but the guy had shown he was prone to giving away sweets.

“So you’re trying to get _me_ fat?”

“Yes, it’s all a big nefarious plan.” Johnny shoved the box harder at him. “Just take it!”

“Okay, okay, twist my arm.” Peter grinned. “I can have these pics edited and ready to sort through in a few days.”

“How does Thursday sound? I’m at the bakery in the evening on Thursdays, why don’t you stop by then?”

Peter nodded. “Thursday. I’ll come by after I’m done grading papers.”

—————

Grading papers the next Thursday took Peter much longer than he’d expected, due to frequent interruptions by students and an angry parent or two, and as he rushed in costume uptown he was further delayed because some jerks in animal costumes had decided that that day was a good day to make trouble. With hostages, no less. Peter _hated_ that.

He shot a quick text message to Johnny begging to reschedule, in between avoiding hits from the loser in the kangaroo outfit.

Johnny’s reply, which Peter received after everyone was all webbed up and ready to be picked up by the police, suggested that they meet at Peter’s place instead. If he was okay with that.

Peter agreed, thinking that he had just enough time to get home and do some quick cleaning before Johnny arrived. His apartment was not neat at all.

The place still smelled like vinegar when Peter heard Johnny knock on his door. With a deep breath, Peter opened it to let him in.

“Hi,” he said. Johnny looked well put together as usual, with that charming magnetic smile that Peter was starting to look forward to every time he saw the guy. “Sorry about the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

Johnny shrugged out of an obviously expensive leather jacket and draped it over his arm. Peter showed him a hook behind the door where he could hang it.

“This is nothing. You didn’t see my bedroom,” Johnny said with a smirk, shaking his head. Peter coughed.

“We didn’t have to meet here if you were worried about cleaning up,” Johnny continued. “I just thought it’d be more convenient for you, since tomorrow’s a school day.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh, uh—thanks.” The gesture made him feel awkward in a way that he didn’t have words for. “You’re the one paying me. You didn’t have to do that. Queens isn’t convenient for you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Johnny grinned. “I’m just nice like that.”

“Let me get my laptop. We’ll browse the photos in the kitchen.” Peter stepped into the living area and grabbed his bag off the couch. He opened the laptop on the small kitchen table, offering the chair next to him for Johnny.

Johnny sat down and propped his elbows on the table, folding his hands under his chin. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass Peter by asking if they could meet here at his place. The trip between Peter’s Queens apartment and Bryant Park was nothing when he could fly there in less than five minutes. His motives weren’t completely altruistic, though—he might admit that to himself. If he wanted to get to know Peter better in Peter’s own space, was it really that bad?

Maybe it was. While Peter was booting up his outdated laptop, Johnny took a better look around the kitchen. The dishwasher was running, indicating Peter had just loaded it up. The counters were clean, but cluttered. In one corner, tucked against a dingy refrigerator, Johnny spied a box of Pop Tarts.

_Pop Tarts._

If there was one thing that Johnny refused to eat, it was cheap, mass produced, so-called “pastries”. They tasted like chalk and plastic to him. How anyone could eat that stuff and live with themselves, he had no idea. It was no wonder Peter liked Johnny’s baking so much. He’d probably never eaten a properly baked cookie or scone in his life before then.

Johnny had been baking since he was a kid. It was inconceivable to him that anyone would settle for anything other than freshly baked things, despite the evidence in every grocery store and corner stand.

Peter was saying something about exposure and contrast and Johnny interrupted him, “How can you eat that stuff?”

“Huh? Eat what?”

“Pop Tarts. They’re so gross!” Johnny made a face.

“Not everyone can afford Madison Avenue treats every day, you snob. Some of us have to make do with prepackaged goods.”

Peter looked annoyed, so Johnny decided to lighten up on the subject. “All right, I’m spoiled, I admit it. Baking _is_ something that not everyone has the time for.” He let out a long sigh.

“Could we focus on the task at hand?” Peter’s fingers tapped on the edge of his laptop, an anxious rhythm Johnny couldn’t interpret.

“Yeah, ‘swhat I’m here for,” Johnny said. He stood up and stepped behind Peter so that he could get a better look.

Peter got to work, scrolling through the photos on the screen, pointing out ones he liked, ones he wasn’t sure about, asking Johnny’s opinion. Johnny leaned over closer to watch, and consider how he was using the photos, and which shots would work the best for which parts of his website.

There was one problem. A distraction he couldn’t avoid kept drawing his attention away from the work: he couldn’t help glancing down at Peter’s neck every so often. Peter’s neck was long, which Johnny liked, and at that angle he had glimpses of Peter’s sharp collarbone under his shirt. He also smelled like clean sweat and fresh air, not like a classroom, as might be expected for a teacher. Johnny liked that too.

He was so attracted to Peter it was ridiculous. He’d never spent this much time with someone he was attracted to before without asking them out. He wanted to ask Peter out, but not while they were working on a job that Johnny was paying him for. That would be entirely without class.

“Those things were great,” Peter said, cutting into Johnny’s thoughts. The photo on screen showed Johnny drizzling icing on a turnover. “I don’t think I’ve had better. It was nice to see how they were put together.”

“Exactly how many high quality pastries have you actually tasted?” Johnny asked. The pop tarts were still bothering him. He couldn’t help it. He was maybe just a little petty.

“Hey! I’ve had all sorts of fancy schmancy pastries before. I’ve been a photographer for the Bugle at ‘high class’ events a few times,” Peter retorted. Into his laptop he slipped a disk, and started dragging their selected photos onto the disk icon on his desktop to burn them onto it. “I’ve tasted rich people food.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look, if you don’t want to take a compliment…”

“I can take a compliment, despite your questionable taste for pop tarts. Especially since I’m confident that my pastries are the best in the city.”

“You’re also very humble, aren’t you?”

“I’ve never claimed to be anything other than brimming with self confidence.” Johnny straightened up and folded his arms, grinning.

“Unless it’s all an act, since you’re obviously threatened by pop tarts. Are you just trying to throw people off?”

Johnny snorted. “Maybe. Did you get that wisdom off the back of a box of Kellogg’s cereal? I see the Corn Pops over there.”

Peter turned around in his chair and looked up at Johnny, a bemused expression on his face. “No, but I _did_ have to take a childhood development course to get my teaching license.”

Johnny laughed, a deep laugh that felt good and eased some of the tension in his chest. “Ouch! Peter Parker doesn’t pull his punches!”

“You started it, rich boy,” Peter said. He pulled up a screen to start burning the disk.

“And you finished it, okay?” Johnny put a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave him a friendly squeeze. Pointing at the laptop, he said, “Like you said, let’s focus on the task at hand. Can’t you email these to me instead?”

—————

When Johnny got home, he was exhausted. It had been a long day already when he’d gotten to Peter’s apartment, and after they’d done selecting photos, they’d sat and talked for a while. Peter knew a lot about Johnny from having finally read that article, so Johnny asked him about his teaching to even the score a little bit. What he liked about it, why he’d been interested in it, what his students were like.

It was amazing how much Peter’s face lit up when he spoke of his favorite students, the ones with a lot of potential. Johnny could tell that Peter felt genuine affection for them, and truly wanted to help them succeed in their studies. He really _cared_. When teachers got bitter and jaded, that was when something had gone wrong. Peter was far from being bitter and jaded.

The only thing that was bothering Johnny was those damn pop tarts, and all the other gross junk food that he’d seen in Peter’s apartment. Maybe Johnny was a snob, maybe he was spoiled, but making sure they were eating healthy had been a big concern for Susan while she was raising him, and the idea had rubbed off on him. The occasional hot dog or burger—like he ate when hanging out with Spider-Man—was not a problem, but he hadn’t seen a single fruit or vegetable in Peter’s apartment. How did Peter stay so trim and fit eating so much junk food?

Falling into bed, Johnny decided to stop thinking about it. It wasn’t his business, it wasn’t his problem.

The next morning when he got up, he was still thinking about it. Something about it was just _bothering_ him, and he didn’t know why.

Picking up his phone, he rang up Sue. It was just about to go to voicemail when she finally answered.

“Johnny? What—“

“He eats pop tarts!” Johnny said, pacing across his living room.

“Huh? Who?”

“The photographer, Peter Parker. He eats _pop tarts_ , for crying out loud! He has no discerning taste whatsoever! I have money, I have a successful business, a sexy car, great hair, and I’ve had offers from modeling agencies. I could have _anyone_ that I want. Why do I want a guy who likes pop tarts?”

“Johnny. It’s three in the morning.”

“Come on, Sue, I’m dying here!”

“You’re not dying.”

“Please!”

“What do you want me to say, Johnny? Just ask the guy out already and let me go back to sleep. I don’t have the early hours you do.”

Johnny let her go, tossing his phone across the room to bounce on the couch. He dug his fingers into his hair, feeling restless and edgy. What was it about Peter that drove him this crazy?

Knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, he threw on his F4 duds and blasted off into the sky to fly around and burn off steam.


	4. Cinnamon and Sugar

“What’s got you all distracted? Unpaid parking tickets?”

“Sure. Somehow they just keep piling up, despite the fact I don’t own a car.”

The Human Torch grinned, lifting his flames to shove a handful of fries into his mouth. He kicked his feet over the edge of the bridge, leaning back on his hands. Spider-Man sat next to him, eating his burger more slowly than Johnny had, being more quiet than Torch was used to.

Torch bumped Spidey’s shoulder with his own. “Cheer up, Webs! The sun is shining, the streets are no more filthy than usual, and I just saved fifteen percent by switching to Geico.”

“Oh, so _you_ have a car,” Spider-Man said.

“Well, you know, not to brag or anything.” Torch shrugged with a grin. “It’s every red blooded American’s dream.”

“I dream of enough financial stability to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach.”

Torch made a _tsk_ noise. “Such a frown on that handsome mouth of yours, when I bought you lunch and everything.”

Spider-Man pursed his lips and Torch was sure that he was glaring a little under the mask. “What’s the news on the two-tone man?”

“Negative?” Torch stuck his tongue into his cheek. He took a moment to sip from his Mountain Dew before he answered. “Well, whatever he’s doing, he’s gone so far underground, or under the radar or whatever, that Reed can’t find trace of whatever he’s doing again.”

“Hmm.”

“Is that what you’re all worried about?”

“Who, me? Worried? I’m always worried about everything. It’s my default condition.” Spidey shoved the rest of his food into his mouth and barely chewed it before he swallowed it down. “Don’t you know me well enough by now?”

Torch pointed at Spider-Man’s mouth. “You’ve got a little—a little lettuce, just… yeah, there, you got it.”

“No, it’s not mister color-challenged, it’s the Bugle. Editor’s on another ‘malign the menace’ crusade.” The wall crawler sighed and pulled his mask down over his face. Leaning over, he braced his elbows on his knees and stared across the water towards Manhattan.

Shaking his head, Torch rubbed his chin and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “I saw. Aren’t you used to that by now? At least the photos look good. You’ve got a great photographer.”

“Uh, you mean Parker?” Spidey shrugged. “He’s okay.”

 _More than okay_ , Johnny thought. “If you’re gonna get smeared in the press, at least you look your best.” He sat down again and tilted his head towards the other hero. “So, does he just stalk you around the city, or do you actually know the guy personally?”

Spider-Man’s head jerked back, though from surprise at the question or proximity to Torch’s flaming head, Johnny couldn’t say. He was leaned in pretty close.

“I’ve met him. Guy’s been taking my photos for ten years,” Spider-Man said. “I’ll admit I’ve posed for—well, more than a few photos.”

“The most flattering ones, I’m sure,” Torch wiggled his eyebrows.

Spider-Man coughed. “Anyway. It’s not like I text him or anything. Guy just happens to be there.” He must have thought that he saw something in Torch’s expression because he added, “Don’t go getting any conspiracy theories or anything.”

Torch put a hand on his chest, “Me? I’ve never cared for conspiracy theories.”

Spider-Man shook his head and got to his feet. “Tell you what. What if I start looking into Negative myself?”

All right, so it was a subject change. “No faith in Mister Fantastic?”

“It’s not that. I know Reed said he’d handle it, but I have something of a different perspective on the guy. Y’know, ground level.”

“You mean _sewage_ level.”

“Shut up. I mean down-to-earth level, not outer space and aliens and extra dimensions like you guys are always busy with.”

“True.” Torch backed away far enough to flame on safely and hopped into the air to hover. “Whatever you want, man. I don’t see why not, and it’s not like anybody’s going to stop you.”

Spider-Man’s head whipped around to the other end of the bridge a moment before Torch heard sirens. Was that alertness because of his spider-sense, or did he have really good hearing? Or was it both?

“Wanna join the dance?” Torch grinned, cutting the flames to his arm and offering his hand towards his friend.

“Sure, but I’ll make my own way there,” Spider-Man said, shooting out a webline and swinging away.

While they assisted the police and firefighters in their duties—saving lives and trying to minimize property damage—Johnny couldn’t help that his gaze occasionally darted around the scene to see if that day was going to be one of the days that Peter Parker got lucky and was snapping photos of Spider-Man in action. It wasn’t as though he would be able to go up to him and say hello, but he couldn’t help that he still wanted to see him in action. Finally he knew someone on the _other_ side of the lens, who wasn’t just a nasty paparazzo or something.

Thankfully there were no supervillains involved in the emergency, so it was wrapped up quickly and easily. Unfortunately, Johnny hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Peter. It had been a long shot, but still, he had been hoping.

“Okay, _now_ who’s being all quiet and moody?” Spider-Man said, clinging to a wall ten feet over Torch’s head. “What’s the matter, Matchstick, don’t you like a good workout and an easy win?”

Torch looked up at him and raised his temperature several hundred degrees. “Sure, bug boy, but I missed my favorite tv show in the process!”

“You ain’t heard of TiVo?”

“Who uses TiVo anymore when there’s YouTube and Netflix?”

“Exactly. And one’s free, and the other’s cheap enough for even _me_ to afford. Cheer up, buddy! We did good today.” Spider-Man threw him a salute, and then took off back towards Brooklyn. “See you next week!”

“See you,” Johnny said, taking another glance around the area cordoned off by police, hoping one last time to see the flash of a camera lens.

—————

It was heading into the end of the school year, and Peter had so much extra work between prepping the final exams for his students, grading papers, and dealing with parents who were suddenly angry about their children’s grades at the last minute—not to mention, of course, flipping around the city in skintight spandex every night—that he didn’t have time to spend money he shouldn’t have been spending anyway on fancy baked goods. He went back to his routine breakfast of cheap crap, and coffee that was only palatable with plenty of powdered creamer and sugar added.

Occasionally, while scrolling through his phone looking for Harry’s number, he’d see Johnny Storm’s name right underneath it. He’d think of the baker’s generosity, and he’d think of the painting of Spider-Man, and he’d feel all flushed and embarrassed and flattered all over again. He wanted to call Johnny, really, but he didn’t feel he had any business doing so. Johnny barely knew him, why would he want to talk to Peter?

Peter’s social anxiety got the best of him, and Johnny Storm’s number remained utterly neglected in his contacts list. It was therefore a shock when that very name popped up on his Caller ID while he was sat at work. A well-chewed red pen was clenched in his teeth, and he was entering students’ final grades into the computer system after the last day of the school year.

He spat out the pen and scrambled to answer the phone, but ended up sticking his fingers to it instead, and almost accidentally hurling the phone across the room and missing the call. It was entirely fitting that his ringtone had been 311’s “Uncalm” ever since that Saturday afternoon taking photos at Johnny’s place, when the lyrics pumping out of Johnny’s stereo had struck a particular note with him.

“Hello??” he spat out breathlessly into the mic after finally sliding the little phone icon into the thing. Or whatever.

“Yeah, hi, is Peter there?” came Johnny’s voice.

“This is a cell phone. Who else is gonna answer?” Peter rubbed the back of his neck.

“You sounded pretty confused when you picked up,” Johnny laughed. “I wasn’t sure.”

Bending to retrieve his pen, Peter stuffed it into his Spider-Man mug and leaned back in his chair, trying to stamp down on both the pleasure and surprise he felt about Johnny calling him.

“We can’t all be perfect,” Peter mused. He scratched the 5 o’clock shadow on his cheek and cleared his throat. “So, uh, how’s it going? You need a photographer?”

“Actually I need your tongue.”

Peter was glad the pen wasn’t in his mouth anymore, or he’d probably have stabbed himself in the throat with it. “ _What?_ ” 

“I want you to come over and try some recipes that I’m considering introducing to my menu.”

“Johnny. Do you know what you sound like sometimes?”

Another chuckle came across the line. “I just like to hear you sputter.”

“You didn’t pay me enough for this kind of harassment,” Peter said, although Johnny had paid him quite well for those photos, as well as—

“Do you want free food, or don’t you?”

Peter snorted. “That is a ridiculous question. Of course I want free food. Who could say no to free food?”

“Someone who doesn’t eat, probably,” Johnny said. “That Vision guy maybe.”

Having firsthand knowledge of how uninterested in food Vision was, Peter laughed. “As long as it’s not, like, monkey brains or lutefisk or something, you can count me in,” he said, grinning.

“Ugh, _gross_. I’m an adventurous sort, but even I draw the line at lutefisk.”

“Monkey brains are okay though, eh?” Peter smirked.

“When’s the soonest you’re free to come over?” Johnny asked.

“Just gonna ignore the monkey brains thing?”

“How about Sunday?”

Yep, he was going to ignore the monkey brains thing.

Peter glanced down at his watch, as if he had a calendar there. “Sure. Any time after noon is fine.”

“Come over at two, then.”

Two o’clock the following Sunday had Peter whooping his way across Midtown in his costume, looking forward too much to the impending summer break from teaching to take the subway. Even though he’d still be doing some paid tutoring, it would be a lot less work and less stress.

After a quick change back into his civvies, and a quicker fix of his hair in the first vaguely reflective surface he passed by, he was once again introducing himself to the doorman of Johnny’s building.

Up on Johnny’s floor, Johnny greeted him, and shoved him down the hall to the kitchen. Before he even got there, Peter could smell onion, garlic, and what was clearly an artful blend of other spices.

“Did you make soup?” he asked, mouth already watering at the smell.

Johnny was grinning, and he nodded. “Yep. Soup and dill bread. I’ve got a couple different kinds of dill bread I’d like you to try for me.”

“There’s more than one kind of dill bread?” Peter asked, approaching the island counter where Johnny had arranged a place setting. Peter felt like he was being put under the spotlight.

Johnny put a hand on his shoulder. “Peter, please tell me you’re kidding.”

“If that’ll make you feel better.”

With a heavy, overly dramatic sigh, and a roll of his eyes, Johnny pulled out a stool for Peter to sit down at the counter. “Indulge me, okay? I also want you to try a cranberry orange scone.”

Narrowing his eyes, Peter pursed his lips. “I still say you’re trying to get me fat.”

“And after that, it’s chilled monkey brains.”

“If you’re planning to rip my heart out and throw me into a pit of lava, I’ll tell you right now I’m not going down without a fight,” Peter said, sitting down and indecorously leaning an elbow on the counter.

“Temple of Doom is the worst Indiana Jones movie,” Johnny said.

Peter gave him a narrow look. “What about the Crystal Skull?”

Blinking at him, Johnny scratched the back of his head. "Well, you know, that movie is so terrible, I completely forgot it."

"All right, I forgive you. It is pretty forgettable," Peter said, shaking his head. He was glad that Johnny had gotten his reference, though.

“So,” Johnny said, leaning over the counter next to Peter and giving him a glowing smile. He seemed so happy and genuine, Peter had to take a quick breath. “What do you want first, the soup or the baked goods?”

An hour later, Peter leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his full stomach. He and Johnny had relocated to the dining area where they both ate some of the food. Peter had chosen his favorites of what Johnny offered him, and then he’d expressed how awkward it was to be the only one eating.

“I thought you were used to a room full of eyes watching your every move?” Johnny had said.

“That is completely different,” Peter had returned.

With a groan, Peter reached for the glass of soda Johnny’d given him, to wash down his last mouthful. “I can’t eat any more. I hope you don’t want me to try some fancy new ice cream or something.”

Johnny shook his head, and took a slurp of his expensive beer. “Nope. We don’t do ice cream. Although I do have probably ten different flavors in my freezer, if you decide you want some.”

Peter groaned again and put his face in his hands. “No, don’t even mention more food.”

“Hmm, you sure about that? Because there was something else I wanted to ask you.” Johnny swirled his bottle slowly, staring down into the bubbles with an expression that Peter couldn’t read.

This entire afternoon had started to feel like a date to Peter, even though he knew it was nothing of the sort, and Johnny’s manner was curious enough that Peter started to feel a little anxious wondering what he wanted to ask about.

Johnny set his beer down, stood up, and began to gather their dirty dishes. “So, there’s an expo up by Lake Placid at the end of next month. A chefs’ expo kind of thing. I go every year, bring a dessert, sometimes win an award. My sister was going to go with me like she always does, but she’s pregnant again, and having some… health concerns. She doesn’t want to travel far from Reed’s lab so close to her due date.”

“Oh, I’m, uh—sorry to hear that,” Peter said, feeling awkward having that information. How had he missed that the Invisible Woman was pregnant? Although it _was_ true that he hadn’t seen any of the Fantastic Four around aside from the Human Torch since the incident at the museum, and that had been months ago. She could’ve been pregnant then and just not shown it yet.

“Thanks. I’m sure she’ll be fine, it’s just bad timing right now.” Dishes clinked together as Johnny stacked them, and dumped the silverware into the topmost empty bowl. “Anyway, this expo. It’s a lot of great food, and good music, and I’ve already got two rooms at a great bed and breakfast booked and paid for.”

“Wait, are you asking me to go to this thing with you?” Peter blinked. “You want me to take photos or something?”

Johnny shrugged and continued talking as he hauled the dishes into the kitchen to dump in the sink. “You can take photos if you want. Try and sell something to your boss, maybe. But no, I don’t want to hire you for this, I want you to go with me to enjoy yourself. As a friend.”

Peter sat where he was, blindsided by the invitation. Also at the concept of “enjoying himself”. He never enjoyed himself. “Uh… why me?” _Also_ thrown off that Johnny wanted to consider him a friend.

“I get bored on long drives, and you’re entertaining,” Johnny said, raising an eyebrow at him as he returned to the living room with a fresh can of soda for Peter and a new beer for himself.

“Oh, har har,” Peter said.

“No, seriously,” Johnny said. “You’re an okay guy, you like good food—“

“Yeah but who doesn’t?” Peter mumbled.

Johnny ignored him and continued, “—and if I took any of my employees there’d be that weird sort of _vibe_ , like they’re not allowed to irritate the boss or something.” He made a face. “Been there, done that. We’re pretty chill at the bakery, but when I go out of town I don’t want to have to worry about that dynamic.”

Okay, that sounded pretty fair to Peter. He had never been in charge of people like that before, not in the same way. He could imagine going on a trip with his students’ parents, and although it wasn’t the same he could sort of get it.

“Here, let me show you a brochure.”

Johnny went into the other room to grab that for Peter, and then pulled up the Facebook page for the event and showed him some photos from the previous year, as well as photos from the B&B where he had reservations. It was all incredibly convincing, and despite all the reasons running through his head why he should absolutely definitely without-a-doubt say “no”, he found himself agreeing. It was going to be summer vacation, after all.

—————

It hadn't been since childhood that Peter had taken a trip to upstate New York. He had only vague memories to go by: fishing with Uncle Ben, setting up the tent, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores. It was the only camping trip they'd ever been on. Money was too tight, his uncle couldn't get the time off, and Peter hadn’t wanted to go once he'd discovered science and his first chemistry set. 

Peter had since then been out of town on hero business, but he'd not bothered to give himself an actual vacation. Even now, as he stuffed his bag into the trunk of Johnny’s cherry red convertible, he felt guilt and anxiety crawling through his belly and twisting it into knots. He was about to leave the city without Spider-Man's protection for three days. He couldn't stop that little voice inside from telling him all the things that could go wrong. 

“Don't look so excited, Pete,” Johnny said to him when he climbed into the passenger seat.

Peter's doubts must have been showing on his face. “Sorry, I'm just worried about one of my summer tutoring students.” It was actually true, as well as a convenient explanation for his frown. A kid named Darren was having a hard time lately. Peter suspected problems at home, but there was nothing he could do about it without proof of abuse.

Johnny adjusted the rearview mirror. “You really care a lot about your kids, don't you.”

Being a teacher meant a lot to Peter. It was his chance to help people as Peter Parker, maybe make a difference in the future of those kids’ lives. Maybe set some of them on a better path, if he could. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, smiling returning to his face. “Yeah, I do.”

Johnny grinned at him, and punched a button on the radio. “You like 90’s alternative rock?”

“Hey, it's your car. You're the boss.” Peter leaned back in his seat, resting his elbow against the door. Johnny hadn't so far listened to anything that Peter particularly hated, so he wasn't going to make a fuss about it when the guy was taking him on vacation. 

“All right then. Let's get out of town before rush hour hits.” Johnny pulled a pair of expensive sunglasses out of the glove box and slipped them on. 

The engine purred as Johnny turned it over, and Peter could feel the horsepower surging through the chassis. “You're not compensating for anything with this car, are you?”

“I _will_ drop you into Lake Placid, if pushed far enough.” Johnny stuck his arm behind Peter's seat and twisted around to look behind as he backed into the street. 

Peter chuckled, “I'd love to see you try.”

“Don't tempt me, nerd,” Johnny said. 

“I'm not all nerd. I work out. I eat my Wheaties; I bet I could take you.” Peter stuck his tongue out. 

“A fine example you're setting for our nation’s youth with my tax dollars.” Johnny smirked.

“Yep, the kids love me.”

“I'll just bet they do. But you forget, I’ve _seen_ your kitchen. You don’t eat Wheaties. You eat sugar and cardboard.”

Peter’s retort was lost as Johnny revved the engine, merging into the northbound lane.

They managed to beat the worst of the traffic heading out of the city for the weekend, though the highway got crowded again again while they were heading through Albany. It was the longest that Peter had spent with Johnny one on one, and though their conversation was pleasant for the most part, even their arguments were fun. 

Once they passed out of civilization and into the wild north in the middle of nowhere—Peter's words, for which Johnny called him a city kid, and Peter responded by calling him a spoiled rich boy who got to take vacations all the time—they both fell into comfortable silence. Watching the world go by and listening to Johnny's considerable music library, as suburbs and small towns gave way to long stretches of woods. The air was clean and fresh, and even though he was so used to the smell of the city that it hardly bothered him, Peter appreciated it. He closed his eyes and took long breaths of it, trying to force the slight hum of tension out of his chest. It wasn't easy; the tension had been an ever present thing for him for as long as he could remember. 

Being out of the city, his costume hidden in a secret zipper compartment in the bottom of his suitcase—because he couldn't just leave it behind—made him notice that tension more. Made him want to be rid of it. 

“Oh. _Oh._ Here we go.”

Johnny's voice after long minutes of silence shook Peter out of that thought. “We've _been_ going.”

“No, no.” Johnny reached out and turned the radio up, a bright grin on his face. “I _love_ this song.”

Crunchy-sounding guitar and drums poured from the speakers, and right on queue Johnny began to chant along with the lyrics.

“ _Marky got with Sharon, Sharon got Sherice, she was sharin’ Sharon's outlook on the topic of disease_ ,” Johnny said. 

“That's not singing,” Peter said, though he recognized the song “Pepper” by Butthole Surfers. “Also, this band has the worst name in the history of ever.”

The refrain changed from the rhythmic spoken lyrics to actual singing, and Johnny kept on, ignoring Peter's criticism and turning the volume up again. “ _I don't mind the sun sometimes, the images it shows. I can taste you on my lips and smell you in my clothes._ ”

Peter looked over at Johnny, who very clearly loved the song, despite the violence in the lyrics. It did have a catchy refrain and good percussion. Peter was tapping his foot along without meaning to.

“You know this song is about heroin, right?” Peter shouted above the speakers. 

Johnny just sang the refrain louder, grinning wider and glancing at Peter out of the corner of his eye. 

In that moment, with the wind in Johnny’s hair, the sun shining on him, and the happy pink in his cheeks, Peter felt something stirring in his chest. Johnny was practically glowing, and Peter found that he couldn’t look away. He was so beautiful, in a way that Peter had never before found another man beautiful before. The flirty way Johnny spoke sometimes, was that just messing around, or had Peter been missing some very important cues?

He licked his lips and swallowed. This was going to be trouble for him. Johnny was rich, handsome, and undeniably talented. Peter was just a loser struggling monetarily who dressed in tights and a mask and beat up criminals on a regular basis as a way of validating his existence. Johnny hadn’t invited him on this trip as anything more than company and entertainment; he’d said so himself. There was no way that Johnny was interested in him.

Not in the same way that Peter now realized that he was definitely interested in Johnny.

Johnny sang every single word through the entire song, and Peter’s cheeks hurt from the effort it took to keep from grinning like a damn moron while he tried not to stare too hard.

The song trailed off, and Johnny turned the volume back down to where it’d been before. “Come on, that’s a catchy song. You don’t like it?”

“Oh I like it fine,” Peter said, just a bit stiffly as he looked past the window so that Johnny wouldn’t see him blushing. “I just can’t not think about the fact it’s about heroin, and I felt the need to share.”

“Is it really?” Johnny narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, his attention back to the road ahead.

“Who cares? It _is_ catchy.” Peter shrugged, thinking about the twinkle in Johnny’s eyes as he sang, the curve of his lips in that carefree smile that Peter envied. He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think of sports as a distraction from some of the other thoughts that were starting to invade his mind, but it backfired when he began picturing Johnny wearing a team uniform with form-fitting pants.

He was _so_ doomed.

—————

The expo the next morning was a lot more entertaining for Johnny than it was for Peter. Peter didn’t have the same interest in new recipes and kitchen equipment that Johnny did, and it was all a jumble of people and food smells for him. In addition, there were quite a number of people that Johnny knew attending. Some were from meeting them on previous years, and some he knew because they worked at other restaurants in New York City. Peter found it impossible to keep track, and after half a dozen times of being introduced to supposedly famous chefs he didn’t recognize as “my photographer buddy, Peter”, he decided to wander off on his own to see what trouble he could get into without Johnny. Or, rather, how many free samples he could find.

When Johnny found him again later, he looked a little bleary-eyed. He must have paid a few visits to the drink bar on one end of the convention hall, or maybe he’d been sampling from the booth of artisan wines that Peter had passed by.

“Pete, my good man!” Johnny said, slinging an arm across Peter’s shoulders. “How are you enjoying yourself?”

“There’s a lot of food here,” Peter said by way of a non-answer, distracted by the heat of Johnny’s body against his, and the smell of his aftershave. The best he could hope for at this point was to survive the weekend without any horrible embarrassments. Then he could go home and be miserable in private. It was inevitable; he was always miserable when he had a crush on someone.

“There’s a lot of really good wine, too,” Johnny said. He smiled at Peter and gave his shoulders a good squeeze before pulling away. “You should really try this mead over there. I’ve ordered two cases! They’ll even ship it right to my apartment!”

“I’m sure it tastes great, but I don’t really drink much,” Peter said.

“Oh, yes, that’s right. You poor thing.” Johnny gave him an exaggerated frown, then pointed a thumb towards the general area of the exit. “Are you ready to get out of here? They’re wrapping up for the evening.”

They left together, and after a brief argument—spawned from Johnny not wanting to drive and discovering that Peter, while he _was_ sober, didn’t _know_ how to drive—they started the half hour walk down the road to their lodging. On the way, Johnny wanted to stop at the little general store in town and get some snacks, and by the time they actually made it to the bed and breakfast, he had sobered up enough that they could have just waited to leave and then driven.

Peter didn’t mind too much, though. He liked watching Johnny’s easy smile, he liked how Johnny would occasionally curl his hand around Peter’s elbow, and how he’d then dance on up ahead singing. Watching Johnny have fun made Peter feel like he was having fun, which he supposed was probably the same as actually having it. Maybe.

The two rooms they had were connected as a suite, where Johnny’s was the larger of the two and had a sofa in front of the television. Neither of them was tired, so Peter asked Johnny if he wanted to find a movie they could watch.

“Hey, no problem!” Johnny said, digging around in his leather shoulder bag—Peter was so envious of that bag—and pulling out a little device with an HDMI connector on one end. “I brought all my movies.”

Somehow that didn’t surprise Peter. “Something not too exciting, I think.”

Johnny pulled the tv out far enough that he could plug the device into it. “What about Blade Runner?”

“You think Blade Runner isn’t exciting?” Peter plopped down on the sofa, reaching for the large bag of chips they’d bought from the store. “Not that I’m opposed.”

Whatever Johnny had his movies on, it apparently synced with his phone. Peter watched him open up an app and scroll through a rather long list of movie titles for just going through the A’s and B’s.

“It’s got long quiet moments but it’s still interesting. And I’ve seen it enough that I don’t need to focus too much on it,” Johnny said. He got the movie started, and then snatched the chips away from Peter to grab his own handful.

“I love this movie,” Peter said while the screen panned over a futuristic, heavily-polluted Los Angeles.

“It’s sure got atmosphere, I’ll give it that,” Johnny said, crunching a chip in his mouth.

“Are you making a pun about the smog?”

Johnny laughed. “No. That’d be a _terrible_ pun.”

“I love bad puns.”

“You would.”

As the movie went on, they managed to mostly shut up for a while and just enjoy it. Peter felt pleasantly sleepy after the long day, though he wasn’t tired. He settled into the inertia of sitting on the couch with Johnny, passing chips back and forth, making little comments now and then. Every so often he’d look over at Johnny, trying to covertly study his face in the glow from the television.

“What?” Johnny said when he caught Peter at it.

Peter swallowed, trying to ignore the patter his heart made. “Er—I was just thinking.” He paused, expecting a smart ass reply, and was a little startled when Johnny didn’t give him one. “You said your sister comes with you every year. Does she get into cooking and baking too?”

“Sue? Nah,” Johnny smiled, looking down at his fingernails. He stuck his thumb into his mouth to suck cheese powder from the chips off of it. “But she gets into the fact that I get into it.”

Peter tilted his head, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” He turned in his seat, tossing an arm over the back of the couch to face Johnny better. His knee bumped Johnny’s thigh and he enjoyed the contact.

“Well, you know it was just the two of us, for a long while,” Johnny said. Peter nodded, not saying anything. “Sometimes it was tough. Mom gone, dad in prison, Sue was going to school and I was kind of a pain in the ass, so…” he trailed off, pursing his lips and taking in a breath through his nose. Then he turned to Peter with another of his charming grins. “Good food is an easy way to put a smile on someone’s face, you know? Somebody eats good food—like _really_ good food, fully balanced and all that—then they’re healthier, and they’re happier. Lifts the spirits, and all of that.”

“I can understand that,” Peter nodded.

“Says mister Pop Tarts.”

“Hey.” Peter frowned, vaguely insulted. But what else was new?

“Anyway, I started to cook because Sue needed help one time, and it sort of clicked for me. And I started baking, and I loved it.” A warmer, softer smile touched Johnny’s lips, and Peter felt almost annihilated by the desire to kiss him. “A quick batch of cookies helps when you’re trying to get out of trouble, too. I don’t know how many times I bribed my sister out of being mad at me with cookies.”

“So it’s important to her… that it’s important to you,” Peter said, stuffing more chips into his mouth, hoping Johnny wouldn’t pick up on his mood.

“Yeah, so she likes to come with me. We have a good time,” Johnny said. “Plus it’s a nice chance to get out of the city for a couple days.”

“It is beautiful around here,” Peter agreed, turning to look out the window. It was nothing but trees out there. “My aunt and uncle raised me, and they loved taking trips. But with three of us, they couldn’t afford to very much.” He stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “I love New York City, though. The occasional trip is fine, but I wouldn’t want to leave it for anything.”

“The city is great,” Johnny agreed. “It’s where all the action is.”

“You a man of action, Johnny Storm?” Peter smiled.

“You’d better believe it,” Johnny said. “It’s also where the best food is, this side of Paris. Yep, it’s got everything. I love the action, the food,” He looked at Peter. “And the people.”

Peter’s heart leapt up into his throat. Was it just his imagination, or did he see an extra sparkle in Johnny’s eyes? He licked his lips and tried to swallow his heart back down. “You love the people? Of New York?”

“Yeah.” Johnny shifted his weight on the couch, in a way that was totally casual but also brought him a little closer to Peter. “New York has… some really _fantastic_ people,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Okay, now that pun was intentional,” Peter said, trying to will his palms into feeling less sweaty.

“Oh, you think so?” Johnny teased, the corners of his mouth quirking in an attractive smirk.

Peter couldn’t handle it anymore, and he couldn’t put voice to the feelings rushing through him. Reaching up to put a hand on Johnny’s cheek, he leaned in and kissed him. He missed, caught the corner of Johnny’s mouth instead, and the sudden thought hit him that, _Oh god what if he doesn’t want this at all?_

Pulling back sharply, he started to stammer an apology, when Johnny’s fingers closed warm and firm around his wrist, and he pulled Peter back. Their mouths met properly, and Peter felt a thrill that shot down through his belly when he heard Johnny make a soft noise.

Their lips remained locked for nearly a full minute, Peter with his hands drifting over Johnny’s waist and his firm abdomen, and Johnny with one arm over Peter’s shoulder and his other hand caressing Peter’s cheek. Johnny was so _hot_.

It was Peter who drew away first, though he didn’t go far. “So I guess that wasn’t crossing a boundary, then,” he said.

Johnny licked his lips and shook his head, his intense eyes locked with Peter’s. “No,” he said. “Not at all. In fact…” He looked down at Peter’s mouth and drew his thumb across Peter’s chin. “I wanna keep doing it.”

“I’ve been wanting to do it all weekend,” Peter confessed.

Johnny chuckled, and Peter loved the sound. “I didn’t know if you liked guys, or I would’ve asked you out more officially a long time ago.”

“My fires light slowly,” Peter said, putting a hand to Johnny’s temple and running his fingers through those soft blond locks.

“I’m any kind of fire you want me to be.” Johnny’s eyes twinkled. He brushed his lower lip gently against Peter’s. “What kind of fire do you want?” he murmured, pressing their lips together fully for a moment and delaying Peter’s answer.

“I'm actually really enjoying just this, right now,” Peter said. It had been a long day, and he was still a bit floored that Johnny was just as attracted to him as he was to Johnny. Plenty of time to let things heat up more later.

“You got it, babe.” Johnny wrapped his arms around Peter and pushed him down onto the couch.

Peter tangled his fingers in Johnny’s shirt, enjoying everything about that moment. The taste of Johnny’s mouth, the feeling of his hands on Peter’s chest, the pressure of Johnny’s body against his. Even the background noise of the movie somehow made it better. He was ready to dive headfirst into the whole new world of _Johnny_.

—————

Spider-Man was in an unbearably good mood. Swinging up 7th Avenue towards Times Square, he was singing to himself, having far more fun than he felt like he should be having but not giving a damn either. He’d had a _great_ weekend, and the shock that would come with actually _dating_ somebody new again after so long hadn’t hit him yet. That in-between period of bliss still had a grip on him, and he was going to enjoy it for all it was worth.

“ _Whoa, amber is the color of your energy!_ ”

After a glorious moment hanging suspended in the air, he shot out a webline and whooshed back down his arc, laughing at the excited screams and squeals of the people whose heads he rushed over by a mere ten feet.

“ _Whoa, shades of gold display naturally!_ ”

“Heya, Webs!”

Coming up short, Spider-Man snagged the nearest piece of wall not covered by a giant advertisement screen and jerked himself over to it. “Torch! What’s shakin’, bacon? What’s the word, bird?”

The Human Torch hovered nearby, folding his arms and grinning. “Well, you’re in a good mood for once!”

“It’s true. You’d better get a sweater, Hell is going to freeze over.” Spider-Man grinned under his mask. He thought again of making out with Johnny in front of the movie, until long after it was over. After that, he’d gone to bed alone, but the next morning they’d done the whole breakfast part of bed and breakfast, then they’d gone back to bed.

Unfortunately, due to the bad timing of housekeeping—because that was Peter's luck—they hadn’t gotten past second base. Still, it had been amazing.

Torch laughed, his voice crackling through his flames. “What’s the occasion for this cheer?”

“Ohhh, well… I had a hot date over the weekend. A really, really beautiful blond.”

“Ha! Congrats! It’s about damn time.”

“Ah- _hem_ ,” Spider-Man cleared his throat. “Excuse you. My love life doesn’t need your approval.”

“True, but I’m happy for you anyway.” Torch formed a big heart out of flames in the air and pushed it towards him. It dissipated in the air before it hit, but Spider-Man could still feel the heat.

“Nice,” Spider-Man said, rolling his eyes. “Speaking of occasions, did you need something, or is this just a social call?”

“Oh, yeah. Reed wants you in his lab, he thinks he’s got a project that might be right up your alley.” Torch took a turn in the air.

The chance to work with Reed Richards was always a thrill. “Say no more, I’m there!”

“Great! See you in a bit, slowpoke!” Torch said, straightening out and blasting off down the street.

Spider-Man chased after him, laughing. The day was just getting better.

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay, I _made_ it! Even though it took over 23k words for them to _finally_ kiss! (Believe me, I watched the word count rising steadily with no kissing and I was pretty frustrated myself.) I also really love these boys, their dynamic, and I **absolutely 100% am going to continue this as a series**. I already have the ending in mind. I hope you'll continue to follow along with me! There'll be plenty more baked goods and identity porn along the way!
> 
> Thank you so much to my artist, [LeBearPolarr](http://lebearpolarr.tumblr.com/), who did an absolutely fantastic job. Seriously. I'm an artist myself, and I know for a fact that I couldn't have done as well as she did. I'm so honored to have worked with her on this.
> 
> Thank you also to mods of the [SpideyTorch Big Bang](http://spideytorchbigbang.tumblr.com/), who have worked hard setting this all up and coordinating everyone. I really hope we do it again next year, because I am _so_ in.
> 
> If you like, I'm both on twitter (@[beckaliz](https://twitter.com/beckaliz)) and tumblr ([bexorz](http://bexorz.tumblr.com/) is my art blog, [spiderbex](http://spiderbex.tumblr.com) is my personal.)


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